


the keeper of fragile things

by FanGirling



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Artist Steve Rogers, Asthma attack, Attempt at Humor, Awesome Sharon Carter (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depression, Fluff, Insomnia, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mention of Past Parent Death, Mentions of Cancer, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recreational Drug Use, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Self-Esteem Issues, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers' Health Issues, Webcams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanGirling/pseuds/FanGirling
Summary: Steve is feeling uninspired during the lockdown, unable to leave the house due to his health issues that make him high-risk. Sam suggests a forum that's been set up for artists to find subjects to draw over Zoom.What happens when he meets James Barnes, the mysterious brunette at the other end of his webcam?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 109
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MORE SHRINKYCLINKS + ANGST BECAUSE I'M PREDICTABLE AF. 
> 
> I'm supposed to be writing a sequel to 'my heart tells me you are lonely too', found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108275/chapters/55288690 (unsubtle self-promotion). 
> 
> BUT this idea came and wouldn't leave me alone. I'm almost finished writing it so I hope to have it up and finished soon enough. 
> 
> Title is from 'House of Incest' by Anaïs Nin -  
> “What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.”
> 
> I won't speak for anyone as it's not my place and I can't add anything to the narrative, but I will say donate if you can, lift up those who are not listened to, and protect each other. Black Lives Matter.

Steve would rarely admit that he’s lonely. 

Sure, he’s been _alone_ since his ma died when he was 17, but he’s always been a ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ kinda fella and he doesn’t wallow. Wallowing isn’t conducive to productivity… Or whatever other shitty mantra he saw on Instagram overlaid on a nice picture of a sunset or a bunch of lilies. 

Lilies were his ma’s favourite flower and, therefore, there had been a flood of them at her funeral so, subsequently, the sight and smell of that particular flower makes him nauseous and want to claw his own skin off. 

His therapist says it’s linked to his PTSD. But he’s never had trauma so he doesn’t know how he could have _post-trauma_. His insurance couldn’t give him the top-notch therapist so he assumed she was an idiot and never went back. 

So he’s _not_ lonely. 

And he usually works from home. Working from home is a blessing for him. With chronic health issues, he works from the confines of his bed more often than not. It’s saved his ass more often than he could admit. Including that one time when he was delirious with pneumonia and managed to finish up some pet shop logo without actually sending the first draft of his email that contained the phrases, “I love you,” and “do you think cats can smell fear?” 

So sure, he’s usually alone but he’s never been so lonely before. 

Sharon lives six blocks away and he can’t see her. Working as a nurse, she could be asymptomatic and carry a teeny tiny little speck of the virus into Steve’s apartment and fucking KILL him. 

(She is the one who included ‘KILL’ in capital letters.)

Of course, she’s right. She’s always right. Because he _is_ high risk and he knows he is high risk but then he hears his neighbours having dinner parties and _party parties_ and he wonders if other people just manage to think. 

Think about others. 

He wonders if they think about how lonely he is. How they are completely healthy and not so at-risk - but still susceptible - and there are others around them, ill or old, who wish that others would stay in for a few weeks so they might manage to see their loved ones in less than a fucking year. 

HE’S SO FURIOUS SOMETIMES HE WISHES - he just wishes. Fuck, he shouts out his window at all times and stomps his feet when Martha and Gordon downstairs have some of their fucking boomer friends over for drinks and, probably, swinging. And he might grab his broom and take out his anger on his ceiling when Kaitlin and Robert upstairs have people over. 

So, yeah, he wishes. He wishes he shared his apartment with another person, any other person. So he doesn’t spend his days trawling through Twitter and answering back The Property Brothers when he’s eating spaghetti and wrapped in a fleecy blanket. 

Steve is so lonely but he’ll ignore the tears when they come. 

He sits on the floor at the big window overlooking the street below at all hours and watches emergency or front-line workers scurrying to and from their places of work. He wonders if his ma was still around would she have to stay somewhere else. Knowing Sarah Rogers, she would’ve slept in a dumpster to save her poorly son from any risk. 

He wishes others were as selfless. Like Sam. 

His best friend calls around every couple of days and drops groceries or meals or other supplies outside his door, fulfilling the text message Steve sends the night before. 

Might he add, he sends it under duress. 

Those few times he didn’t send a text, Sam had left him that spray cheese shit he hates and pickles, that he hates even more, and no ingredients that he could make a frigging meal with. Steve immediately called him and was answered with Sam’s deep, warm laugh. 

“I told you, man! You gotta tell me what you want or I’m gonna give you random shit from the back of my cupboard.” 

So Steve sighed, groaned, held his head to stave off a tension headache. 

“ _FINE_. Fine. Okay, you win. Please, just no more shit I can’t stand. _Please_.” 

“Send me a text every few days with your list and I’ll get what you want, don’t send me a text and I’ll give you as much random shit as I can carry. You got that?” 

“Fuck, I hate you.” 

Sam sniggers, “y’know you love me.” 

Steve makes grocery lists now and sends them to Sam and if he does it all in separate texts just to piss Sam off, well, he would deny it if ever asked. 

So his kitchen is full and he does his laundry under cover of darkness because he’s more paranoid than he would like to consciously register but he still showers every day and dresses like he’s a normal functioning member of society to Zoom with colleagues that he likes and others whose apartments he would never want to see. He doesn’t want them to see his own apartment either so his background is always some relatively creative idea he manages to come up with. 

Like standing in as the wife in American Gothic. 

But work is harder now. 

Work is harder because he’s creative and he takes inspiration from the couples he sees in the park or a mom and kid by the swings or a handsome cyclist or a sweet barista. His inspiration comes from the colors and sights of huge billboards and magazines in bodegas and brazen New York dogs that will piss wherever they please, thank you very much. 

So this situation he is in right now is really all Sam’s doing. 

Steve will blame him anyway. 

Sam was on the phone and Steve was whining (Sam’s word, not his) about his state of affairs and how little inspiration he has and how much he hates everything because life is terrible and awful and he’s so lonely… Of course, he’d rather pull off his own foreskin with his fingernails than admit to Sam that he’s lonely. 

“So why don’t you, I dunno, draw something?” 

Wow, such great insight, Sam. 

“I’m drawing all the fucking time, what do you think keeps me in wine and inhalers?” 

Sam’s snort is louder across the phone than it might be in real life. 

“What about all those people who are, like, doing life-drawing classes online and stuff?” 

What? 

“What?” 

So now Steve is sitting in front of his laptop, dialing into a Zoom meeting with some guy from a forum that Sam had put him onto because he’s clearly much too engaged in Steve’s life. Steve would complain if it wasn’t a gentle reminder of Sarah Rogers’ overbearingness. 

Steve is going to end up dead, isn’t he? But it’s too goddamn late because it’s calling and he’s sitting there like an absolute fucking lemon waiting for ‘James Barnes’ to answer. 

And then there’s a messy brown head tilted forward, grumbling something. 

“Hi, James?” 

The grumbling stops and then there’s a face and where was the loss of inspiration again? 

Because James? James is fucking perfection. James’ face looks like it was sculpted by a select team of particularly talented gods with a penchant for plastic surgery and renaissance art. 

Soft, tanned skin laid delicately over sharp cheekbones and an even sharper jaw. Stormy blue-grey eyes set among thick dark lashes. The long hair that Steve thought would cover his features only enhances his looks. 

“Steve, hi!” His voice is rough but warm, though his eyes are a little guarded and, maybe it’s the lighting, but his face is a little grey. 

There’s an awkward silence that is either a lag on one of their sides or maybe it’s just them. But this was Steve’s idea and he wanted to draw someone, maybe interact with someone, so it’s really up to him to try to move this beyond sheer, blood-draining awkwardness. 

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Steve begins, shoving his glasses back up his nose, “it’s kinda weird, huh? I mean, not _that_ weird, I guess, but weird that we can, like, do this?” 

As he speaks, James’ mouth spreads into a small smile. 

“Yeah, I guess,” James out and out grins then and _fuck_ , “I think I’ve spoken t’more people since all this stuff went down then I have in years.” 

Steve laughs, “tell me about it. I gotta interact with the assholes I work with more now than I ever had to before.” 

James has a pink flush to his cheeks and Steve already has multiple paintings and sketches planned. Fuck, he might even turn his hand to sculpture. 

Silence stretches between them, James’s eyes focused on what must be the window behind his computer screen. The natural light hits him in a way that makes Steve a little breathless. He can’t take his eyes off him so he notices when he starts moving around in his seat, shuffling uncomfortably. 

Steve doesn’t understand how such a beautiful man could ever be uncomfortable. 

“So what made you do this?” Steve asks, “not that I’m complaining, like, I didn’t even know this was a _thing_ and then my friend said he was sick of me complaining about having no inspiration and it’s pretty important for my work so then he was like, well there’s this thing you can do -” 

Okay so he’s rambling, and he realises he’s rambling when he looks up and James is looking at him with these soft eyes and he stops abruptly. 

“Sorry,” Steve continues on a whisper, “I been told I talk too much.” 

James shrugs a shoulder and smiles this little lopsided thing that makes Steve’s chest go numb. 

“S’good ‘cause I been told I don’t talk enough.” 

Steve grins, hoping the fire in his cheeks has lessened enough and his shitty lighting can help disguise it. Before he can say anything else, James continues. 

“To answer your question, my friend - he’s more of a pain in the ass, really - took care of the whole thing and said, y’know, if I didn’t like it, I could just log off and never come back.” 

Steve is sure his face betrays how his stomach drops at that. 

“You decided yet?” 

James glances away, his eyes shining in the light from his window. 

“Think I’ll stick around for a while.” 

Steve grins, “really? Y-you’ll let me draw you?” 

James does that one-armed shrug again, smile dimming a little. 

“Um, you, you don’t want, like, nudes or-or topless or anything, right? S’just your blurb said you didn’t and apparently others were _really_ into it and I’m not-” 

Steve blushes, shaking his head, trying to bite back a smile, “no, I mean, it’s mainly faces I like to draw, portraits and stuff, y’know?” And now that he’s talking about art, Steve can’t really stop, “I wouldn’t mind, I guess, full body would be great with, um, clothes.” 

James bites his lip, “maybe start with the face?” 

So Steve just nods, his mind already flicking through multiple ideas, images, how they could position James and the source of light in his apartment and how good he would look in that early morning greyness just before the sun rises or the smokey glow just after the sunsets and maybe James could use his phone so they could move it around and he could see what the - 

And he only realises that he’s been spouting some words at random when he glances between the scribbled notes at his right hand before looking up and seeing James’ face beaming, expectant like this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen. 

Steve immediately balks, “oh god, James, I’m sorry… I just start to get these ideas and they come pouring out of me and it’s usually best that I work alone because I think it’d drive most people crazy!” 

But James just leans his cheek against his palm, “it’s pretty fascinating to see someone’s brain work in real-time.” 

Steve is blushing _again_ and this guy might just be the end of him. 

“Um, do you have to work or anything with all this going on?” Steve asks suddenly, “just so we can work out a time to do this if you still wanna? I have meetings around lunchtime but I pretty much just do my work at whatever time suits…” Steve stops then, looking up from his notebook, “that is if you’re still sure?” 

James’ pretty eyes look almost blue in the light and Steve wishes he knew what the real colour was without a screen and terrible lighting between them. 

“I’m sure,” James smiles, his eyes downturned like he’s shy, “I’m free most of the time. Um, I have some stuff I gotta do, meetings and stuff, but maybe let me know a time that works for you and I can work around it?” 

Steve wants to thank him, wants to tell James how much he appreciates sharing himself with Steve this way, sharing his body and his face and his beauty with Steve so that he can be inspired. How it might make him feel less lonely, how he’s already made his day, his week, his lockdown a little easier. How absolutely beautiful he is and Steve couldn’t ask for someone better. 

Instead, Steve settles for, “I can do that.” 

James’s smile is shy again before it goes purposefully blank, like a shutter coming down and it makes Steve cringe, “you sure you don’t wanna try this with someone else? I mean, I’m not-” 

“No!” 

It’s only a split second later that Steve realises how desperate and quick he was to respond. 

“I mean, no, I… I’d like to draw you.” 

James smiles, glancing down again, and his nose scrunches up when he smiles and _jesus_ he’s beautiful. 

“Okay.” 

##

“-and I’ve already started sketching again, just for _fun_ and he seems nice and he didn’t wanna do, like, nudes, so I told him that was fine obviously!” 

Sam chuckles down the line, “so I’m a genius and you should thank me for everything I have done to make this happen?” 

Steve rolls his eyes and makes sure to scoff loudly into the receiver because fuck you, Sam, that’s why. 

“OH YES, THANK YOU, SAM. FOR INVENTING THE INTERNET AND CREATING THIS FORUM AND COMING UP WITH THE CONCEPT OF ART AND BIRTHING JAMES A-” 

Sam is already cackling, “fuck off, Steve, you can’t pretend that this wasn’t my idea! You can thank me for ALSO telling you to mention that you aren’t into nudes. _James_ wouldn’t have given you the time of day!” 

Steve potters around his kitchen, reaching for his fifth mug of coffee.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve snorts, “you’re the greatest person in the world and I will be forever in your debt.” 

“You _want_ me to give you nothing but pickles tonight? Because I’ll do it, Steve, don’t test me.” 

Steve hates Sam a great deal. 

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” his hands shaking with the amount of caffeine in his body. 

“Well, while I’m the worst person in the world, I gotta go have a meeting with a client. Talk to ya!” He ends the call and Steve goes back to work, creating a wolf for a business logo. 

He can’t decide if the eyes are more grey than blue. 

##


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who read, kudosed, and commented on the last chapter! Let me know what you all think, I love to hear your feedback :D

##

By the time they meet again - over Zoom - a week later, Steve has eight sketches of James, doodles of that cupid’s bow he has yet to get just right, an outline of long silky hair and at least four dreams of pretty eyes that morph from grey to blue. 

All in all, Steve is _fucked_. 

Their emails have been somewhere between casual and formal. Steve has to restrain himself from declaring how _inspiring_ and stunning and _beautiful_ James is so he is doing SPECTACULARLY WELL. 

Never mind the fact Steve hasn’t seen a non-celebrity in weeks and has spoken solely to his coworkers and friends and porn is just so… boring. Exhausting. 

He hasn’t fantasised about James in that context. Not yet anyway. If lockdown goes longer than four or five months, his morals may just flee by way of his sexual escapades. 

OKAY, SO HE’S HORNY. SO SUE HIM. 

But James' face appears on the screen then and Steve is already surrounded by his art materials. All he needs now is a pencil and paper and maybe James wouldn’t be opposed to Steve taking a screenshot of him. Of his face. His face. 

Steve can’t help the grin that pulls his mouth wide apart, “Hi James!” 

James’ hair is pulled back into a bun this time, emphasising the sharpness of his features, his long elegant neck and the slope of strong shoulders. 

Steve could write a sonnet about his Adam’s apple but he won’t. He won’t. 

He will definitely try not to. 

“Hi Steve,” James has a tentative smile on his face but his voice is low, rough, and Steve can see there are deeper bags under his eyes than there were before. 

Steve swallows, unsure if he should ask about it, if he should tell James that they can do it another time. 

“How are you doing?” 

James leans closer to the screen and bites his lip, attempting a smile. 

“Good, tired. Didn’t sleep great and then had an early meeting.” 

Steve’s face falls. James didn’t sleep well, maybe he was nervous about today? Steve feels his chest run icy cold with anxiety. 

“Listen, James, we don’t have to do this…” Steve whispers, leaning closer to his own screen on instinct, “if this is too much or you aren’t comfortable anymore, I’d rather you didn’t do it.” 

James’ pale eyes open wide and his mouth drops but Steve only continues. 

“You’re doing me a favour and it’s not fair that it would make you stress out so, y’know, we can cut our losses if you - if you’re not-” 

“I _am_ anxious,” James starts, face mulish like the words are being forced out of him, tone rough like gravel, “but I gotta, I wanna do this. And I have to push my, my boundaries?” 

Steve has a feeling this goes deeper than just worrying about some drawing. 

“It’s not you, Steve, I just… I have to do something, some time. I can’t just always be -” James cuts himself off, biting roughly on the inside of his cheek. 

Steve’s heart is pounding, studying the man in front of him. There’s so much he doesn’t know about others, so much he doesn’t know about James and that James doesn’t know about him. And Steve has some hella anxiety and depression so he kinda gets it. His mind flitters through the possibilities, what he could do to let James do this comfortably, with room to leave. No explanations, no - 

“You can have an out!” Steve says suddenly, voice louder than he meant it to be. James frowns at him. 

“What?” 

“We can each have an out, as many outs as we want, whenever we want, a veto, no questions asked. Either before we start or even during. If either of us gotta leave or, or just _want_ to leave, we can go. No explanation needed.” 

James stops biting at the inside of his mouth and he seems to study Steve in such serious manner that Steve balks. 

“Or not? It was just an idea.” 

But then a small smile breaks across James’s face and it’s like the sun finally beaming through the clouds following a dark and stormy night. 

“You’d do that?” 

Steve can admit that he is fully and completely mesmerised by James’ smile so he’s breathless when he responds. 

“Of course, anything to make you comfortable.” 

James’ tired eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I like that idea.” 

Steve feels the blush spread across his cheekbones, “yeah?” 

James continues to nod, “yeah, I - I think that’d help.” 

Steve helps, he _helped_ , “okay, okay great.” 

A tense silence washes over them before Steve remembers what he wanted to ask, “oh, by the way, I was wondering. I mean, I wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind…?” 

James looks at him with something almost _sweet_ in his smile, “yes, Steve?” 

Steve sighs, his face feels like it’s burning, like the first time he asked a girl on a date.

“How would you feel about, like, screenshots or sending me pictures? I could work off those as well if you didn’t wanna sit for me some day?” 

James pales slightly and Steve wonders what he said wrong, what he did wrong so he rushes to apologise. 

“I - you don’t have to! It was just an idea but I don’t need pictures of you, it’s fine. It was just an idea, I don’t - I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable and it’s not like I’d sell them on the dark web or anything!” He can hear how high and slightly hysterical his voice has become. 

James looks at him pityingly again. 

“It’s okay, Steve, s’just I don’t have many recent pictures. They’re from when I was a kid, still in school and I don’t even have many anyway. My sister’s got most of ‘em.” 

But his tone is soft and cautious and Steve feels terrible. He always manages to shove his foot somewhere beyond his tonsils. 

“It was just a thought but it doesn’t matter. I guess, if I wanted to draw from pictures, I could just draw some random celebrity, right?” 

James’ shoulders drop from where they had been still around his ears and Steve hadn’t even noticed. 

Steve feels like such a cock. 

“You wanna use an out for today?” 

James smiles sadly, glancing at the corner of his laptop. 

“Yeah, maybe. I got a call in, like, twenty minutes.” 

Of course, sure he does. Steve knows he won’t see James again. This will be the last time that face will grace his screen and he’ll have to go back to arguing with the Property Brothers because it’s not like he would find anyone better on that goddamn forum. No one that lights him up like that and makes him itch to create. 

Then he’s looking back up, “s’okay, Steve, there ain’t nothing to look that sulky over.” 

And then he’s grinning and like _that_ Steve’s bad mood has evaporated. 

“I’m not sulking!” But James is giggling a little and _fuck_ his scrunchy nose, the asshole. 

And James leans back, “you around Thursday?” 

Choirs of angels sing their songs, JAMES WANTS TO PLAN ANOTHER DAY. 

“Y-yeah, I’m free. Whenever, whenever works for you.” 

James nods, “I’ll email you?” Steve smiles, body relaxing. 

“Yeah, do. Please.” 

James rolls those pink lips between his teeth to hold back a smile, “please?” 

_Fuck._

“BYE JAMES!” James’ gruff laugh cuts off when Steve logs off. He immediately takes out his phone and texts Sam. 

**Sent: I AM A FUCKING DISASTER AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.**

**Fuck Face: I have a client in 10 mins. If you’re gonna have a crisis, can you be quick about it?**

**Sent: You’re the worst counsellor ever.**

**Fuck Face: :***

Steve sighs. He’s spiralling. 

**Sent: SHARON.**

**Sent: SHARON.**

**Sent: SHARON.**

**Nurse Ratchet: WHAT?**

**Sent: This drawing thing was a terrible idea.**

**Nurse Ratchet: My shift finishes in six hours. Can you wait and have your crisis then?**

**Sent: WHY DO YOU ALL THINK I CAN CONTROL MY CRISES?**

**Nurse Ratchet: I love you but this is the first break I’ve had in twelve hours.**

**Sent: I’ll never hear the end of it just because you save lives and shit. You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.**

**Nurse Ratchet: Xxx**

Fine, so maybe he’s overreacting but he’s never been good at social shit and talking to people and being around people and making decent eye contact so this one-on-one thing is hard and he’s so _tired_ after his encounters, like it drains the lifeblood right out of him. 

A nap. A nap is a great idea. 

##

It’s a little over 10 minutes into Steve drawing when James attempts to speak without moving his head. 

Steve had him set up his phone in front of the window so the natural light could catch those sharp features in all their glory. The day is slightly overcast where James is - just like it is where Steve is in Brooklyn - and the grey light makes his wolf-like eyes almost icy. 

He asked him to cross his arms and rest his face against the crux, leaning forward against the table in front of his laptop so their first session could be as comfortable as possible. 

“Steve?” 

Steve is focused almost unthinking on the outline of a straight nose, humming a little noise. He’s heard something and he wants to acknowledge that but, who is he kidding, he doesn’t have a clue what was said or where it came from. 

Then there’s a snort of a noise and another, “ _Steve!_ ” on a little laugh. 

That catches his attention. Steve finally looks up and finds James’ eyes glistening with mirth, his soft-looking lips spread into a gentle smile. He’s just so… So. 

Steve’s face flushes and suddenly he’s hot all over, sweating a little, James makes him so nervous. God. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, pulling his sketchbook up a little to cover some of his face because he won’t show the full expression on his face if he can help it. “I get a little distracted when I draw.” 

James giggles - fucking _giggles_ \- and looks at Steve with something he can’t identify but it lights up Steve’s heart like a beacon. His eyes close with joy, crinkling around the edges. 

“I can tell.” 

His head stays in the same position but there’s a rosy hue to his cheekbones and Steve is a little blindsided by how beautiful one human can be. 

James continues, “I’m bored here just sittin’, you wanna tell me a story?” 

Steve grins, “like a bedtime story?” 

James grins back, his teeth bright white against his pink lips, nibbling on the inside of the bottom one. 

“Whatever you want, Stevie.” 

_Stevie._

_Stevie?_

Steve picks up his pencil again and stares defiantly. 

“Once upon a time -” He’s interrupted by a loud cackle from the other side of the Zoom call. 

“You’re the worst!” 

Steve bites back his smile. He has rarely heard something as sweet and lovely as James’ laugh. 

“Fine! Why don’t _you_ tell _me_ a story?” 

James moves his neck a little before settling back against his arms. 

“I can’t, I gotta ‘stay still’,” he mumbles, exaggerating the air quotes though his voice does enough. 

Steve giggles again. He doesn’t giggle. What the fuck does this asshole do to him? 

“Fine, fine!” Steve stares at his sketchpad, feeling warm all over. 

James settles down, looking calm and serene and soft in his deep blue hoody. It makes his eyes look bright, his dark hair and pale skin a stunning contrast like a 1940s film star that has been transposed into modern life. 

Steve focuses on the sharp outline of James’ jaw on paper and breathes a deep sigh.

“My favourite book is ‘Slaughterhouse-Five’ so Imma give you the synopsis-” 

James’ head pops up and he beams at Steve, completely throwing off his outline. 

“I LOVE ‘SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE’!” He’s lit up like a Christmas tree, eyes a little more dilated than they were before and he likes Kurt Vonnegut so Steve might be a little be infatuated. 

Just a little. He decides to play it cool because he is cool. He’s like that punnet of grapes he left in the freezer to use in his wine but he left them too long and they exploded. _Cool._

“Okay so not that synopsis?” 

James settles back down, his voice like rich caramel. 

“Yeah, you can tell me about it.” 

James’ voice is soothing and almost sleepy and the rest of their hour goes the same way, and when he finishes describing the book, he goes onto his favourite paintings, painters, techniques until - 

Steve looks up, realising he’s been talking for well over their allotted hour and James’ face is more relaxed than he’s ever seen him. 

His drawing is finished and it’s still bright out, the light making James look a little hazy and ethereal. 

“First picture’s done!” 

James sits up then, his hair falling across his face and Steve wishes, god, he just wishes he could reach out and push the strands away from those eyes, away from where one of the strands catch on his lips. He pushes them back himself and the moment is gone. 

“So,” he sounds hesitant, “you one of those artists who doesn’t show their stuff to other people?” 

Steve grins, “nope,” blushing, “it’d be kinda hard to make a living that way.” 

James’ cheeks are a little pink when he bites his lip. 

“Can I see?” 

Steve swallows because, well, in spite of what he just said, it’s a little daunting to show James what he’s just done. He’ll have to just bite the bullet. 

“Sure.” 

Then Steve is turning the sketch around so that James can see it through his camera lens. James’ smile slowly falls from his face the longer he looks at it. 

Suddenly the air is so thick with tension, James may as well be in the room with Steve, telling him how terrible it is and how much he hates it. 

The silence stretches and Steve feels like he’s drowning. 

“What do you think?” 

James pushes a smile to the corners of his mouth that looks more like a grimace. 

“It’s beautiful, Steve,” his voice is barely more than a whisper, before he’s clearly his throat, “but listen I gotta go, okay?” 

No. No, it’s too soon. He’s angry and Steve is desperate to fix it. 

“James, I -” 

But James is already looking at his keyboard, glancing around the screen, trying to find the ‘close’ button. 

“I’ll email you.” 

And then he’s gone. 

Steve turns the sketch back around so he can look at it himself. He thinks it’s good, better than anything he’s done so far in isolation. There’s a warmth to it. 

James looks amazing, as always, he could probably tumble out of bed with a raging hangover and look like a model so he’s not exactly the hardest subject to make look beautiful. But this drawing, there’s something else to it. In the soft lines around his eyes and the quirk of his lips and the care Steve took to shade his eyes _just right_ that shows perhaps a little more of Steve’s feelings than he had hoped. 

In that moment, Steve realises, James knows that he likes him and he freaked out. 

Because why wouldn’t he? 

##


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Steve has some harsh opinions on himself.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for readings, kudosing and commenting! I really appreciate it and love to know how y'all are enjoying it.

##

Steve is wine-drunk and it’s only 8pm. He has a reason though. He’s socialising. Well. 

Sam and Sharon are in a group meeting with him and they are both a little tipsy too but they aren’t lightweights like him. 

“- and he looks like a goddamn Renaissance painting so it’s not like I can talk to him like a mere fucking _human_!” 

Sharon laughs, all high and pretty, head thrown back and it makes Steve smile. Sam just snorts and presses his smile into his glass, taking a long gulp. 

“Steve,” Sharon grins, “you are capable of talking to him like this, like normal. You aren’t that bad at social interactions!” 

Steve just groans, all of his stumbling, mumbling, the word vomit he displayed, all running through his head. He lets his head thump and rest against his arms. 

“HE’S JUST SO BEAUTIFUUUUUL,” Steve wails from the safe dark space between his chest and arms. He looks up then and Sharon is still grinning and Sam looks too fucking pleased with himself. “HELP ME, I NEED HELP!” 

Sam snorts, “I think you’re beyond help, man.” 

Sharon scoffs, “he is not beyond help, Sam. Look at his little face!” 

At that, Steve makes sure to push his bottom lip out and frown as hard as he can. 

“You know that face doesn’t work on us anymore, right?” Sharon “aww’s” at the same time and Steve grins. 

“It clearly works on my one and only friend!” 

Sharon clinks her glass against her camera before Steve does the same. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out, Steve?” And she’s so casual about it that Steve gapes at her. 

“You haven’t seen him, Shar! He is soooo far out of my league. What would he want with some shut-in with the immune system and self-preservation of a baby bird?” 

Sam grimaces, “you know you shouldn’t talk about yourself like that, man. And, you never know, I mean, you don’t really know anything about him. Other people have struggles we don’t know about.” 

Steve rolls his eyes so far back in his head, it actually pains him a little. 

“Sam - wonderful, naive Sam. I know you feel like you have to lift me up or whatever but, let’s be real, this man is perfect beyond anything I’ve ever seen and if I asked him out, he would laugh directly in my face,” his mood darkens significantly without his consent and his words come quicker when it looks like Sam and Sharon want to interrupt, “andthenIwouldn’tevenhaveanyinspirationsoitwouldn’tbeworthitsoI’lltakewhatIcanget!” 

It’s true. Sure, he jokingly talks about his crush on James like he thinks he would ever do anything about it. But it’s nice to imagine. To daydream about James slipping his hand into his own, or casually wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders and tugging him against his body, or staying up late talking about nothing and everything all at once. It’s nice to fixate on something new; something that isn’t work or a pandemic or his shitty body or his mom. Like when he’s lying in bed and he can’t sleep and he can imagine an entirely different life to the one he’s living now, where he’s happy and content and healthy and in love with J - someone. 

His voice is low then, “I’m used to being alone.” 

Both Sam and Sharon wear equally disappointed looks so Steve just huffs and leans back. 

“Steve, c’mon,” Sam begins. 

“Anyway, he ran as fast as he could from our last meeting so…” 

Sharon leans closer to her screen, “you can’t run from a computer, Steve.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.” 

“Steve,” Sharon starts but he cuts her off. 

“Please don’t make me.” He’s afraid if he starts speaking, the tears will come and he doesn’t need more pity heaped upon him.

So they talk about other things, the movies and TV shows they’ve been watching, new bands they’ve been listening to, Sharon’s attempt to not headbutt one particular doctor on her rounds. 

That night, he angrily wipes away a tear and pretends that his loneliness doesn’t feel like something physical. 

##

James vetos his meetings with Steve for the next two weeks. 

##

Steve can’t sleep. Sleep has become harder to grasp in lockdown, and even harder since James started to ignore him. 

He texts Sam at 1.47 a.m.

**Sent: You awake?**

Sam texts back almost immediately. 

**Fuck Face: I wasnt but I am now you ok?**

**Sent: Can’t sleep.**

Suddenly his phone is lighting up with a call from Sam and the pain in his chest lessens a little. 

“Hey Sam, I - you didn’t have to call y’know? I’m a big boy.” 

Sam sounds sleepy but there’s a smile in his voice. 

“You are definitely not a big boy.” 

Steve cackles, “fuck you, Samuel! I’m plenty big in all the right places.” 

“That’s fucking gross, man.” 

Steve is grinning in the darkness. He still manages to be surprised by how much his friends can make him feel better with just a few words. 

“You made me defend my honour, it’s your own fault.” 

Silence pours through the line from both sides but it’s not uncomfortable. 

“This about James?” 

Steve sighs, “nah, not really. I mean, I’m kinda disappointed that he won’t do it anymore but I get it. I’m a bit weird.” 

“No!” Sam’s voice is strong, “this has nothing to do with you, Steve.” 

Steve can’t help but feel a little warm at that. Regardless of whatever else is going on in his life, if he can’t talk to people properly or leave his house or he doesn’t have many friends, the friends he does have are the best people he has ever met. 

“Look, Sam, you’re my best friend so obviously you’re gon-” 

“Nope! Nuh uh, I’m not going to listen to this. This self-pity shit gets old quick, alright? There ain’t nothing wrong with you. This guy is maybe busy or something, right? Or, or maybe he’s not as put together as you think, he might have other shit going on. I told you, you don’t know what’s going on with others, y’know?” 

“Yeah, I - I guess you’re right.” 

Sam just sighs, Steve can hear him rub his face a little too aggressively. 

“That forum was probably a bad idea, huh?” 

Steve smiles at that, “who’s having a pity party now?” 

“Ha, fuck you too! I just, y’know, thought it’d be a good idea, thought it’d be good for you.” 

Steve turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. 

“I know, it was a good idea, Sam, I enjoyed it while it lasted. I’m not gonna go look for someone else but, y’know, if James emailed me, I dunno, I just wish I knew he was okay. A stranger! Sad, huh?” 

“You’re not sad, Steve, you’re a good person.” They both yawn at the same time which sends them into laughter. 

“Listen, I’ve got an early meeting so I’ll talk to ye tomorrow, yeah?” 

The demons in Steve’s head seem to have settled. 

“Thanks for everything, Sam, you’re my favourite.” 

“I better be!” 

Their goodbyes are short and quiet. 

Steve sleeps. 

##

The next evening, Steve receives an email from James. 

**Hey Steve,**

**It’s James… you obviously know that. I wanted to say sorry about everything. About the last few weeks. I have a lot of stuff going on, personally, that I don’t need to bog you down with. This is kind of daunting, to be honest, with how long it’s been.**

**And that’s all my fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. I really liked our meetings and, if you can forgive me, I’d like to do it again.**

**If you don’t want to talk to me again, I understand. If you do, my number’s down below. Text is a little less scary, I think?**

**James**

James gave Steve his number. HIS NUMBER. He jumps into the group chat. 

**Sent: MAYDAY MAYDAY, JAMES EMAILED AND GAVE ME HIS NUMBER, WHAT DO I DO?**

**Nurse Ratchet: STEVE I’m so happy for you!**

**Fuck Face: Text him back like a normal functioning member of society?**

**Nurse Ratchet: SAM STOP!**

**Sent: YES SAM STOP!**

**Fuck Face: You’re as useless as him. Text the man!**

**Sent: IM GONNA DO IT. IF I DON’T TEXT BACK IT’S BECAUSE I HAVE NEW, BETTER FRIENDS.**

**Sent: Not you, Sharon.**

**Nurse Ratchet: Ha!**

Steve contemplates what he’s going to text for an hour before he puts his phone down and goes to make tea because HE CANNOT HANDLE THIS SITUATION WITHOUT TEA. And cookies. And cake. 

Okay so he’s going to eat his way through this difficult time and when he’s full of sugar, he will text James. 

A couple of hours later - because he has to pretend he has a life and he hasn’t been focused on James for the last four hours - Steve picks up his phone. 

**Sent: Hi James, thanks for your email. I appreciate it. I would like to keep drawing you if you still want to? Thanks for your number!**

**Sent: This is Steve btw.**

**Sent: Though now I realise that you probably already know that unless you make a habit of emailing your number to people. And they want to draw you?**

**Sent: I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that!**

**James <3: Hi Steve! Thanks so much for texting me. Honestly I didn’t think you would. Your messages were funny. I’m free tomorrow if you want to Zoom?**

Steve has to sit back and just contemplate his entire existence. His heart feels like it’s trying to leap out of his chest because a ~~cute, sweet, beautiful, stunning~~ boy is texting him. 

He reverts to his mindfulness app for a few minutes and, when that doesn’t work, he just decides to text back. He can’t embarrass himself any more than he already has. 

**Sent: Of course I’d text you back. I’m not a monster!**

**James <3: I know but lots of people need more than an apology.**

Steve frowns. He doesn’t know what’s going on but, from his tone, he can sense that James is different, there’s something so _sad_ about him. 

**Sent: You don’t owe anyone anything, James. Definitely no more than an apology.**

The bubbles appear and reappear for a few minutes. It disappears for a few minutes before reappearing. 

**James <3: You’re something else, Stevie.**

Steve grins, he’s warm all over and the roots of his hair tingle, electricity in his skin. He wonders what James had been trying to say before so he decides to play it off as a joke, doesn’t want James to know how much such simple words mean to him. 

**Sent: You got that right.**

**James <3: You wanna meet about 4 tomorrow?**

**Sent: Sounds good. See you then.**

Out of sheer touch memory, Steve almost includes an ‘x’ at the end and, god, he’s glad he caught that and was able to delete before he sent it. Would’ve been terrible if he’d have to kill himself so soon after James getting back in touch. 

##


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all for reading! I really appreciate the comments and kudos and would love to know what you think. 
> 
> Be safe, be kind. Keep the momentum. Black Lives Matter.

##

Steve spends a full week on a new sketch of James, transferring to acrylic on canvas, and relishes in the feeling of paint under his fingernails. 

James doesn't ask to see the finished product. 

##

Sam and Steve are playing virtual chess because apparently they are both 90 years old. Steve had been in the chess club at college and had promised Sam that when they had free time Steve would teach him. It only took them six years to find the time. 

Steve had never been good at the more academic things but chess just suited his brain. He liked it, thinking tactically, thinking ahead, it was fun. It can teach you things about people that they themselves aren’t aware of. 

So now that he has free time and the glory of virtual chess, it’s time for him to teach Sam his ways. They are about twenty minutes into it and Steve takes perverse pleasure in Sam’s constipated face. 

“I DON’T GET IT,” Sam growls once, making Steve snort. Steve doesn’t let Sam know that he’s simultaneously trawling through Twitter in another open window. Twitter isn’t as stressful for him now that he has muted mentions of pandemics and certain government officials so now it’s mainly once-viral tweets, activist accounts, and TikTok videos that have been uploaded. 

“Patience, grasshopper,” Steve grins, and, really, if looks could kill, he would be dead a dozen times over. 

“How are you so good at this and you could never remember to take your clothes out of the washer?” 

Steve holds back his laughter and smiles serenely at Sam, pushing the calmest expression to the forefront. He loves Sam dearly but he loves annoying him even more. 

“Sam, chess isn’t for everyone,” he whispers, making another move, “you don’t have to be good at everything. It’s for people who can see ahead, y’know, see outside of themselves.” 

“Oh fuck you, Steven!” Sam grumbles and Steve lights up with joy, he has never seen someone hate to have their own counseling tactics thrown back in their face the way Sam does. 

“Sam,” he keeps his voice low and relaxed as he watches Sam fall into his trap, “you’re wonderful at other things.” 

Sam’s laugh is incredulous as he throws back his head, “you are the biggest fucker I have ever met in my life! Who knew chess brought out your condescending side?” 

Playing dumb, Steve makes another move, “condescending? Moi?” And then he forces a sad frown to his face, “that’s check, grasshopper.” 

“AND STOP CALLING ME GRASSHOPPER!” Before Sam starts clicking random buttons and pieces, growling audibly. He eventually makes another random move. 

Then it’s over, “that’s checkmate, Samuel.” 

Sam makes a noise akin to a howl, “I’ll never get this stupid fucking game!” 

Steve pulls his face into a somber grimace, “No such thing as a bad student, only a bad teacher.” 

And that makes Sam cackle, “did you just fucking _Miyagi_ me?” 

Steve takes a drink and doesn’t make eye contact, hiding his smile in his glass. 

“Want a rematch?” 

Sam glares then, “you’re supposed to be teaching me, not just beating me! How am I supposed to learn like that?” 

“We make sacred pact. I promise to teach karate to you, you promise to learn. I say, you do, no questions.” 

Sam just near loses his mind, “STOP QUOTING THE GODDAMN KARATE KID!” 

##

It’s late, raining, Steve feels soft and, okay, so Sharon may have dropped off some edibles in front of his door because she is literally the greatest person he has ever met. And he may have had a little crush on her when they first met that didn’t materialise into anything because he realised that their friendship would be much more important than anything romantic. 

Sharon’s always been a little more weed-inclined than Sam so she likes to throw cookies Steve’s way when she has the time and knows he could do with it. He loves her more than he could ever describe. 

She also bakes cookies for her elderly neighbours who are a little more arthritic than they would like to admit. They’ve started a whip-around in her building to fund her treats and it warms the cockles of Steve’s cold, dead heart. 

Steve has had one cookie - because he learned long ago that edibles hit him like a goddamn freight train - and has become one with the couch, his skin and muscles and sinews amalgamated into a fabric-like substance that melts into the inanimate object. 

It’s one of the only times Steve can feel his aching limbs relax, his contracting muscles ease and his fragile lungs relieve. He must remember to ask her to bring them every week and he’ll pay her whatever she wants; it’s totally worth it. 

He is staring at a lit candle on his coffee table when his phone beeps somewhere to his left. It takes him a little longer than he would admit for the phone beeping to register in his head. 

It’s James. JAAAAAAAMES. His insides feel all squishy and tingly and he can feel a smile spread across his face. 

**James <3: You have any TV recs?? I’m all out of ideas. **

Steve stares at the notification pop-up until his phone screen fades to black and then he’s staring at his own face in the shiny blackness, his eyes look wide, glassy but they feel dry as _fuck_ and when he blinks it’s literally the best feeling ever. His arms are tired from holding his phone up for so long and his eyes focus and refocus like a camera lens until he sees the screen in the distance reading ‘ARE YOU STILL WATCHING?’ and he groans out a “ _yessssss_ ” because what the fuck else would he be doing with his day? His evening? HE’S IN QUARANTINE AND CAN’T LEAVE HIS HOUSE AND HE’S WATCHING THE GOOD PLACE FOR THE THIRD TIME. 

He rushes to answer Netflix lest they stop him midway through his epic binge before he turns back to his phone and remembers James. JAMES. Mmm, he still feels all warm and soft and everything fizzles like he’s surrounded by wet bathbombs or pop rocks. That’d be weird. Maybe he could put the pop rocks on his skin in a layer and then just start licking them so they fizz or he could get in the shower and wet his whole body and rub them into his arms and then they could do their job. 

He wouldn’t mind some poprocks to eat right now, might help kick his tongue back into gear because it feels so dry in his mouth, it’s the couch. Dry, like the fabric of the couch. He takes a sip of Coke and sighs, the bubbles burst over his fabric-y tongue and coat it in liquid. 

Steve hums in satisfaction. He’s never been so satisfied. 

JAMES! 

He turns to his phone again, shoving MnMs into his mouth and crunching with a grin. He was going to give James a list until he realised that he didn’t really know what he was into, what TV he was in the mood for. If this is the only time for him to show James what kind of things he likes and his extensive television knowledge, he’s going to do it right. 

**Sent: What genre?**

It only takes a few seconds for James to respond. 

**James <3: Youre so efficient! :D Um, partial to comedy or a REALLY good drama. Something engaging.**

Steve trails through his mental catalogue - not that it’s working that well right now but he does his best. 

**Sent: I’m currently watching The Good Place - one of my comfort shows. Along with Parks and Rec, It’s Always Sunny, Schitts Creek. You watched them?**

**Sent: OH, THE GOOD WIFE AND THE GOOD FIGHT.**

**James <3: You’re basically reading my mind. Unfortunately I’ve watched them all :D I have a lot of time on my hands… **

Steve blushes. He and James like the same shows. It basically means they are 100% compatible, right? Like they could sit and watch TV shows and laugh and cry with the fictional characters, and whatever else. 

Okay, so the shows that he likes - the less popular ones - might also be something that James likes. 

**Sent: Okay so I like slightly weirder stuff too. What We Do In The Shadows - watch the film and then the TV show. It’s amazing.**

**James <3: I’m gonna get on that right now and I’ll let you know what I think of your taste ;) **

IS HE FLIRTING? Steve’s weak, stoned little heart can’t deal with it. His head is still a little fluffy and foggy but that’s definitely a winky face. HE HAS TO PLAY IT COOL. 

**Sent: Do. It’ll test if you like good shows and if you pass it, I can give you more :D**

A smiley face, a _grin_ isn’t so bad, right? It’s a reaction emoji to James’ wink and it’s probably the kind of shit-eating grin he would accompany with a statement like that. Yeah. It’s fitting. It’s fine. But the bubbles appear and reappear and Steve’s bowel churns with anxiety. 

**James <3: I’ll hold you to it. I’m going to start right now!**

Oh, thank you Jesus. He took it as it was meant. Great. Okay. Wonderful. 

## 

The next evening, James texts saying he’s finished the whole thing and wants more recommendations. 

Steve wiggles pleasantly and treats himself to another cookie. 

## 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism and comments are my crack and keep me going! 
> 
> *I don't condone illegal and/or recreational drug use. Steve's reaction is NOT everyone's reaction because it varies for everyone.


	5. Chapter 5

##

James is sitting back on his couch, looking like James Dean and Marlon Brando’s copulations actually turned up a friggin’ child. He’s perfect and Steve might hate him. Only slightly. 

His arms are stretched across the back of the couch, dressed all in black, his hair falls in loose, shiny waves around his face. He looks dangerous, like a 50s biker, worn combat boots on his feet with one thrown over his opposite knee. 

The image, however, is made so much better by the contrast of his long black sleeves pulled over his hands. It’s almost childlike. He looks so vulnerable. And Steve doesn’t even have to draw hands, which is just a bonus. 

Steve’s pencil flies across the page, like his hand and his mind are fighting about what to draw first and how fast he can get it on the page. 

It’s coming to the end of the hour and Steve is anxious, he knows his time is coming to an end and he can feel his heart racing if only he could get it finished and get some of the detail - he doesn’t think he could get James in the same position again, and have this flow again, no matter what day it is, and if only he could stretch it out into a longer time and James didn’t want pictures taken of him but maybe he wouldn’t mind if he knew how desperate Steve was to complete something like - 

“Steve?” 

So he’ll have to try to get the shading filled before the time is finished and he’ll lose this specific lighting and the clothes he’s wearing and how the material creases around him, falls gently like it was purposely positioned that way and his hair is just a few strokes from perfect, a couple of laces and lines to be completed before he has to finish up but he just won’t have the time and James has a call in fifteen minutes and it’s too quick, too much. 

“Steve!” 

The pencil falls from Steve’s grasp and he looks up. Only then does he realise how dry is mouth is and how out of breath he feels and - 

“Hey, Steve, you okay?” 

But he can’t catch his breath so he coughs out “one minute” before he’s rushing to his backpack to grab an inhaler. Then to the kitchen for some water. 

When he gets back and falls to his knees in front of his screen, James is sitting forward, forehead creased into a frown, phone in his hand like he’s desperately texting someone. 

“Hey,” his voice is calming, “hey Stevie, you okay?” 

Steve feels his eyes flood inexplicably with tears. 

“S-sorry, just a-an asthma attack,” and it still feels like he’s trying to breathe through a clogged straw and his hands are shaking and he just wishes - he just wishes. 

James smiles like he understands, like he gets it, but he doesn’t look like the kind of person that has been at death’s door more often than not. 

“You’re okay, Steve, you’re breathin’ now, you’re doin’ real well.” 

Steve just stares at James. 

“I’m sorry.” 

James just shrugs than one shoulder thing, his head down, a little smile on his face. 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” 

But Steve feels like an absolute fucking loser. He bites back the tears and heaves in a few desperate breaths. 

“I gotta go.” 

But when he says it and James’ face drops, Steve immediately feels like shit. 

“Hey, hey, Steve, you don’t have to - it’s fine, we can just -” 

But Steve’s eyes are growing increasingly, alarming wet, and it takes everything in his power not to look up. The pity he will see there. 

“Please, James, I can’t right now.” 

“S’okay, no problem. Just… can I text you later, maybe?” 

He wants to text Steve? 

“Just to see how you’re doing?” 

Steve is still getting his breathing back under control so when he gasps, he pretends it’s not because of James. 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Never done anything I didn’t want to.” 

Steve feels his face flush, “okay.” 

##

An hour later, Steve gets a call from Sam. 

Steve is already tucked onto the couch with his soft bedding, tea steaming in a mug almost the same size as his face and all of the softest, most oversized clothing in his wardrobe. 

“Hey, Sam. What’s up?” 

Sam takes a breath, “nothing, man, just wanted to see how you’re doing?” 

And his voice is a little strange, like when he knows more than Steve does and there’s nothing that riles him up more than that. But he’s exhausted so he can’t even argue. 

“I had an asthma attack, so I’m giving myself some self-love.” 

There’s a few seconds of silence, “I didn’t interrupt you… giving yourself some _love_ , right?” 

Steve cackles out a laugh, “Jesus Christ, Sam, no! It’s early evening, what kind of a fucking animal do you think I am?” And suddenly he’s coughing again, deep and chesty and hacking like it’s coming from his core. 

Sam, bless him, doesn’t even comment on it. 

“I dunno, maybe you’re a guy who has nowhere to be and all of the porn to ever exist?” 

Steve scoffs, “I don’t know if we’ve ever discussed how utterly fucking boring I find porn so, no, that shan’t happen.” 

Sam sniggers, “okay, great, I never knew that the only thing in my life I had yet to discover is your interest level in porn. Thrilling.” 

There’s a stretch of silence then, ugh, and Steve can’t help but inhale and exhale deeply, how he’s been taught, eyes closing, letting his body relax deeper into the couch cushions. 

“I had a meeting with James and then, I dunno, I was freaking out about not finishing within the hour and, like, then, I guess, I got an asthma attack and, well, it finished around the hour mark anyway so I kinda fucked myself.” 

Steve hates those little silences Sam puts into their conversations like he’s really thinking about what he’s going to say, unlike Steve, who just word-vomits and keeps talking until whatever words he says eventually make sense. 

“You think it was just an asthma attack?” 

Steve rolls his eyes, letting his head loll back into his pillow, eyes closing, trying to dampen his frustration. 

“ _YES, DAD_! It was just an asthma attack.” 

Sam always likes to make sure that his non-verbal responses are still loud enough for Steve to notice. 

“S’just people’s anxiety is higher at the moment, Steve, nothing wrong with that.” 

But Steve is feeling sorry for himself so he’s pretty sure no one else in the world feels as bad as he does right now, as alone. 

“I embarrassed myself in front of James…” His voice is barely a whisper and sometimes he wonders how Sam puts up with him. 

“Having an asthma attack _or a panic attack_ is not embarrassing, y’hear me?” 

Steve knows that logically. He knows that there is nothing to be embarrassed about. He has a list of health issues that could rival the Dead Sea Scrolls and, even if it was an anxiety attack _or whatever_ , that shouldn’t be something to cause embarrassment either. 

All of this he knows logically. But he can’t help but pay some attention to that mean little voice in the back of his head that tells him he’s unworthy, unlovable, unnecessary. 

“He’s gonna think I’m crazy.” 

And those tears are back because, fuck, he’s exhausted and he hasn’t had a hug in weeks and his friends can’t visit because he’s a time-bomb and he can’t even leave the fucking house because whatever shit is floating in the air could likely kill him. 

“Steve, I can almost guarantee on my life that he doesn’t think you’re crazy.” 

He loves Sam an awful lot. 

“You definitely can’t guarantee that.” 

There’s a car beeping in the distance. 

“Can you just trust me on this? Don’t shut him out, Steve.” 

In a few words, Sam has described the crux of Steve’s entire adult life. Shutting people out. His mom died right before college, leaving him untethered and unprotected and just fighting to feel something, to feel anything. 

He was angry, not just angry, but vengeful. How dare the world take his mother from him when so many terrible people still lived? What gave him or anyone else the right to live and play dangerously when she did everything right and still ended up in the ground? 

So Steve pushed everyone away. Until Sam. And then Sharon. And, eventually, Peggy. 

Steve presses his wet eyes into his pillow before responding. 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“S’all I ask,” Sam’s voice has always been soothing to him, Steve’s often told him he could narrate a stellar series of meditation recordings, “text me later, yeah?” 

##

Steve is awoken by a knock on his door - it’s barely 9 p.m. - and by the time he gets there, the person is gone. He looks down and sees a grocery bag. _Sam._

The bags are filled with his favourites; Flamin Hot Cheetos and Ben and Jerry’s Birthday Cake (the vegan kind because Sam is a literal saint) and gummy bears and a crappy gossip magazine. 

Steve can’t hide his grin as he texts Sam his thanks, while Sam’s response is just so _Sam_. 

**Fuck Face: You can thank me by texting James. I’ll know if you don’t.**

**Sent: FINE. Asshole. Love you.**

**Fuck Face: Love you too, dickhead.**

##

Steve is surrounded by the treats that Sam brought him when he pulls out his phone once again. 

**Sent: Heyyy I’m sorry about earlier. Feeling better now. My friend brought me comfort food.**

His response is almost immediate. 

**James <3: That’s good, I’m glad. I was thinking about you. Hoped you’d text. Your friend sounds nice.**

Steve feels warmth carry from his heart, all the way out through his limbs. He’ll let himself live in this happy little world where James likes him. If only for tonight. 

**Sent: He’s the best but I’d never tell him that :) He gets me stuff because I can’t leave the house.**

**James <3: I have a friend like that. She’s awesome but I’d die before I tell her. You can’t leave your house? **

They’re getting kinda friendly now, right? Like, it wouldn’t be weird to tell James that he can’t leave because he could die, right? 

**Sent: Underlying health issues… Even with the asthma alone, I’m in the ~vulnerable~ category. Hence asking a stranger to pose for me on the internet ;)**

**James <3: Wow yeah I never thought of that. I can’t leave home right now either. Hence posing for a stranger on the internet :D **

Does that mean that James is like Steve? Does he have an invisible illness that leaves him vulnerable to aspects of the world that other people take for granted? Maybe he understands how lonely Steve is. 

**Sent: You can’t go outside either?** The bubbles appear and disappear for a few minutes. 

**James <3: It’s complicated. But not right now, no.**

**Sent: So you get it then.**

**James <3: Yeah, I get it, Steve.**

And sue him, he’s feeling sad and vulnerable and raw. 

**Sent: It’s nice that someone else gets it. My friends try to understand but you can’t really get it unless you are that way too.**

**James <3: I think you might have it worse than me though. **

**Sent: It’s the same for anyone who’s sick. You can’t help it and it’s not by degrees or whatever.**

**James <3: Thanks, I appreciate that. **

**Sent: It’s easier to talk like this, huh?**

**James <3: HA definitely. I can think about what I have to say without pressure. **

**Sent: Never think there’s any pressure from me.**

**James <3: Stop being so nice! **

**Sent: HAAaaa if you knew me, you wouldn’t say that.**

**James <3: I do know you.**

Steve’s heart thunders in his chest, beating an arrhythmic beat against the inside of his ribcage. He could fall in love with him. 

**Sent: Not well enough if you think I’m nice, James ;)**

**James <3: Call me Bucky. **

**Sent: What?**

**James <3: My nickname, my friends call me Bucky. **

HIS FRIENDS CALL HIM BUCKY. 

**Sent: Okay, Bucky. I like it.**

**James <3: Blame my sister. **

Steve’s eyes are growing tired and he’s warm and happy and he feels like a Disney princess and at any moment tiny squirrels and bluebirds are going to come in and start tidying up his apartment. 

**Sent: I will blame her. But I gotta go, I’m falling asleep here.**

**James <3: I didn’t realise how late it was! Night Stevie. **

**Sent: Night Bucky.**

Steve immediately changes James’ contact to Bucky and falls asleep on the couch with a smile on his face. 

##

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are like crack. I love to hear feedback on what y'all think. I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Black lives matter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments literally make me so happy. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter and it takes you away from the literal dumpster fire we are currently in, if only for a few minutes. 
> 
> Be safe, be kind. Black Lives Matter.

##

Steve can feel the heat in his cheeks and the churning in his belly before James - Bucky - even answers his video call. 

Bucky is grinning when he answers. 

“Hi Steve!” And the sight of his sweet face makes Steve’s body relax. 

“Hey Bucky,” Steve greets, curiously watching Bucky’s cheeks flush pink, the smile still on his face. He glances away, before looking back at Steve. 

“S’weird to hear you call me that,” but he doesn’t seem weirded out by it, the flush on his face spreads, “I like it.” 

Steve knows he doesn’t mean it the way Steve hopes. He’s just happy to have another person say his name while he’s in lockdown. Steve knows how it is, how it alleviates just a little of the loneliness. 

“Why’d you say to blame your sister for the name?” 

Bucky snorts, wrapping his arms around his legs and rest his chin on his knees. 

“Middle name’s Buchanan, and Becca got fixated on the name but couldn’t pronounce it when she was a kid soooo it was Bucky.” 

Steve grins, “so your little sister basically named you?” 

“Jesus, never let her hear you say that, I’d never hear the end of it!” 

Steve giggles _fucking giggles_ so he attempts to distract himself by taking out some art supplies and he won’t have to meet Bucky’s eyes when his cheeks are flaming like they are. 

“I’m gonna do charcoal today, a few rough sketches of your face and profile and maybe your shoulders? And, um, you can talk and stuff if you want because I wanna get some, like, um, action… moving shots? Like, like you’re mid-conversation. That okay?” 

Bucky bites back a smile, “sounds good.” 

Steve is distractedly dragging his stuff around to where it’ll be within arms reach when Bucky’s tinny voice comes through again. 

“So, wait, I gotta talk the whole time?” 

Steve snorts, “um… or you can sing, rap, recite the states and capitals? Whatever you want! World’s your oyster, etcetera, etcetera…” 

He’s trying to catch the line of Bucky’s grinning jaw when he starts muttering, “Montgomery, Alabama, Juneau, Alaska, Phoenix -” 

“OH MY GOD!” Steve cuts him off with a cackle, “you can’t!” 

Bucky is still grinning, “don’t underestimate the hidden talents of a nerd, Stevie.” Bucky’s face is lit up like he’s having the best time and Steve can’t help but sigh at the sight. 

“Nerd, huh?” 

Steve moves to catch the way Bucky’s hair falls, the twinkle in his eyes as they move to the side, the white teeth that nibble his lower lip. 

“If there was a nerd card, I’d be a proud owner.” 

And Steve just wants to listen to him talk so he asks another question, “anything you’re nerdy about in particular?” 

Bucky looks almost dreamy when he tilts his head back, eyes fixed on the window in front of him. 

“Space. Always thought I’d get to go to space.” 

There’s something wistful, sad, in the tone of his voice that Steve is afraid to explore, afraid he’ll lose that joyful spread of his mouth. 

“Still time for that,” Steve mumbles, purposely not keeping his eyes on the screen for too long, allowing Bucky some freedom to talk. 

“It was just a dream…” 

Steve looks up under his eyelashes and notices the distracted tilt of his eyes, the clench of his jaw, how his marbled eyes have dulled. Steve decides to try to change the direction of their conversation so his voice is soft when he asks. 

“Tell me about the stars?” 

Bucky lights up, his face boyish and sweet. 

“Really?” He bites his lip then, looking down, and Steve wishes he could record the whole interaction so he could capture every expression on Bucky’s beautiful face. “People don’t usually ask…” 

Steve feels his whole body light up, warm through his limbs. 

“I want to hear about it all.” 

Steve settles in and an hour, then two hours, pass by in the blink of an eye. Steve doesn’t realise until they've already hung up.

##

It’s late and he can’t sleep. Steve doesn’t like to bother Sharon late at night in case she’s either catching up on some well-deserved rest or is, y’know, saving people’s lives. He also doesn’t like to bother Sam more often than not because, frankly, he doesn’t need Sam’s sheer momma bear tendencies all of the time if he can help it. 

He’s trawling through his multiple social media accounts when he sees that Bucky is online. He’s online and is it weird if he just randomly texts someone he knows without knowing them really well just because they are awake at 2.40 a.m.? Maybe. Is it weird to text a cute boy because he makes him feel warm all the way down to his toes? Most definitely. 

Because Steve is neither a teenager nor is he the star of a Christmas Hallmark movie. It’s still _May_. 

Steve is just about to put his phone down and succumb to his dark thoughts when it vibrates in his hand. 

Bucky. 

Bucky is texting him. Bucky is texting him at nearly 3 a.m. and he isn’t a teenager and he isn’t in a Hallmark movie. 

**Bucky <3: Do I sense a fellow insomniac in my midst? **

**Sent: I would’ve figured the eyebags like suitcases would’ve been a sure giveaway.**

**Bucky <3: Nah, the lighting in your apartment is clearly forgiving.**

Steve feels a squeal rush through his body like something uncontrollable but he holds it in because he’s a certified adult. 

**Sent: You are too kind. At least my eyebags age me enough that I can buy alcohol. Before insomnia, I was carded every time.**

**Bucky <3: A silver lining. That’s pretty refreshing. **

**Sent: My sunny disposition is constant.**

**Bucky <3: HA clearly. **

Before Steve can respond, Bucky sends another message. 

**Bucky <3: You wanna talk about it?**

Does he? Does Steve want to talk about it? It’s not like it’s anything specific, it’s more like he can’t ever turn his mind off; an old movie reel of what he’s done and what he wants to do and what he’s afraid to do flips through his mind, interspersed with images of his mom and hospitals and needles piercing his skin. 

It’s fine though, he’s fine. 

**Sent: Just can’t turn my brain off. Hard with not leaving the house.**

**Bucky <3: I get ya. **

Their conversation slows for a while before another text comes through. 

**Bucky <3: I’m really fucked up. **

Steve feels his heart restrict and thump carelessly behind his ribcage. Bucky’s text sounds vulnerable, sad, broken, and Bucky doesn’t seem fucked up, he seems pretty perfect. 

**Bucky <3: Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.**

**Bucky <3: I’m really sorry, that was super weird. **

**Sent: No no, it’s fine. Im pretty fucked up too.**

Bucky’s message bubbles appear and disappear and reappear. Then Steve’s phone starts to ring. **Bucky <3**. He answers immediately. 

There’s silence on the other end of the line. 

“Hi,” Bucky whispers, “I don’t know why I called.” 

Bucky sounds gruff but gentle, a little broken. 

Steve clears his throat, staring at the ceiling. His skin feels sensitive to the clothes on his body, the blanket over his legs, the pillow under his head, the way his hair tickles his face. His humidifier pumps eucalyptus into the air, it fizzes in the background. The streetlights outline his bedroom furniture. It’s never truly dark in New York. 

“I’m glad you did.” 

Steve doesn’t mean to sound as breathlessly appreciate as he does. He doesn’t know if he imagines Bucky’s gulp over the line. 

“Yeah?” 

He sounds nervous, vulnerable and Steve is a bullheaded asshole who will not, under any circumstances, let Bucky think that he is unwanted. Not here, not anywhere. 

“Yeah, Buck. I saw you were online and thought about texting you but you texted me first.” 

Silence ensues for a few seconds that feel like they stretch into the ether. 

“It’s nice,” Bucky’s breath fizzes across the line, “knowing I’m not the only one awake.” 

Steve can’t help but smile, “luckily, I live in the city that never sleeps.” 

“Wait,” Bucky is almost accusatory, “you’re in New York?” 

Steve grins into the darkness because people who aren’t from NY always think that it’s, like, the most magical place, even if they have never been there. It’s not really that special. 

“Yep, Brooklyn born ‘n' bred, baby…” Steve drawls, turning over in bed, feeling warm in a way that isn’t wholly appropriate. 

Bucky’s voice lacks anything that could be deemed a surprise. 

“Brooklyn… you’re from Brooklyn.” 

And though Steve knows Bucky - or thinks he does - he suddenly feels so much closer to serial killer status than before. 

But then Bucky continues, “ _I’m_ in Brooklyn… _born and bred_.” 

That can’t be right. What is the likelihood that an international forum would contain two Brooklynites that managed to not want to kill each other within five seconds of meeting? 

Steve is fairly certain Bucky is around his age and he’s beautiful enough that Steve’s poor little bisexual awakening would have been a lot earlier if he had caught a glimpse of Bucky in his peripherals. 

“That’s is super fuckin’ weird, no?” 

Buck snorts, “more weird than anything I could’ve considered, honestly.” 

So Bucky is nearby, like, really nearby. Close enough that - after Steve determinedly manages to survive a pandemic - they could realistically meet and be friends. Friends. 

Steve whispers, “Park Slope.” 

There’s a grin in Bucky’s voice when he responds, “Prospect Heights…” 

Steve wonders if he manages to keep his gasp silent. Bucky is practically next door. Bucky is within miles of Steve right now, right this second. 

“You always lived there?” 

“Nah, Bed-Stuy as a kid…” Bucky’s voice lulls him into that grey place between wakefulness and sleep, “moved here after the army.” 

Steve didn’t realise. Didn’t know. But it makes sense. Bucky is strong, his body contains the evidence of strength and resistance training, trawling through mud and hauling bodyweight around desert-hot climates. 

He keeps his voice quiet, “what was it like?” 

Bucky grunts, pulling them from whatever comfortable realm they had settled into. 

“It was fine…” His voice is hard before it softens, “I mean, not _fine_ but…” 

Steve doesn’t like how sad and trying-not-to-be-sad Bucky’s voice sounds. 

“Maybe we can meet when I won’t die from leaving the house?” 

There’s a few seconds of silence, “I’d like that, Steve.” 

The warmth in Steve’s body makes his eyes droop but he doesn’t want to stop yet, he doesn’t want to leave Bucky when he can’t sleep and it’s not like he can see the stars in Brooklyn and he’s suddenly affronted with the idea. 

“You can’t even see the stars here, Buck!” 

Bucky snorts, “what are you talking about?” 

“Y-you love space and you can’t even see the stars here because it’s always too bright and the sky is that murky orange-brown colour.” 

There’s a smile in Bucky’s voice when he replies, “I like how annoyed you are by that.” 

“Light pollution is a thing!” 

“I’ve seen the stars from the desert, the countryside, the sea… I prefer being here, even if it means I can’t see them, some things are more important. I know they’re always up there.” 

The more Bucky speaks, the more Steve hurts for him. He wonders what happened, why he left, but he knows from Sam, that the story of a soldier is something that should come from them, without pressure. 

“I’d like to paint the stars sometime.” 

“That’d be nice,” Bucky’s voice is a be whisper, “you could go on a road trip to find the best spot to do it. 

Steve would blame it on his tiredness, “maybe you could come with me?” 

The few seconds it takes Bucky to respond are the worst of Steve’s entire existence. 

“Maybe. Maybe some day.” 

##

The last thought before Steve falls asleep is that he thinks he might be falling in love. 

##


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO POST. I've caught up with myself posting the chapters and I have exams this week so bear with me. There will be a few more delays but I hope to have it sorted soon. 
> 
> Thanks a million to everyone who has commented, I don't think you can understand how much I appreciate it. 
> 
> I hope you are all staying safe and taking as few risks as possible. Be kind, wash your hands, take care of each other. Black lives matter.

##

The next morning, he promptly starts to freak out so he calls Sharon. 

“Hey Steve,” her voice is sweet and quiet, as always, unperturbed in a way that means she could be lounging on the couch in her jammies or putting in a catheter. Steve would never be able to tell the difference. 

“Hey Shar,” his heart already calming at the sound of her voice, “you in work?” 

“Nope, still in my PJs on the couch. First day off in two weeks and I’ve done nothing but sleep and watch Real Housewives… It’s been _amazing_.” 

She sounds so relaxed, lighter than she’s sounded in weeks. 

“I-I’ll leave you to it, I don’t wanna -” 

“Steve, c’mon, don’t play the martyr. What’s up?” 

“It’s not important, Shar, I d-” 

“Steve, sweetie, come on. It’s not about a handsome brunette, is it?” 

It’s like Sharon has always had a sixth sense for Steve’s feelings or his romantic feelings, at least. She knew he would hit it off with Peggy, and then somehow knew when it no longer worked. Steve’s throat is dry when he tries to swallow. 

“I - I like him. I think I’m catching feelings.” 

He hears her sigh over the line, “oh Steve…” 

His heart twinges painfully and he feels sick to his stomach because god knows the last thing he needs is a crush - more than a crush - on a beautiful man, a straight man, who lives nearby and knows all about the constellations. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night and he couldn’t either and he saw that I was online and texted me and then we spoke on the phone and, it’s like, he’s so… sad or something, Shar, I dunno. There’s so much I don’t know about him but what I do know, I like. I _really_ like.” 

Sharon is quiet like she’s contemplating her words. 

“I’m not going to tell you this is a bad idea, because I don’t know that it is. But you don’t know anything about him, as you said, what he does, or what he’s like when he’s not talking to you. You don’t even know if he would be open to a relationship with a man.” 

And Steve knows what she says is true but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less. His head hurts. 

“I know, I know that but there’s something more to him, I can feel it. I… I wanna help him.” 

“You want to fix him.” 

She says it like it’s a bad thing like there’s something wrong with trying to help or fix someone. Anyway, he - he’s not, it’s not fair that she says things like that. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help someone, Sharon.” 

She sighs at that, voice softer now, “I know that Steve, but if you try to help him because you have feelings and he doesn’t, you’ll just end up hurting yourself. You deserve more than that.” 

Steve knows she’s looking out for him but it still hurts because, frankly, he doesn’t really think he deserves more than that. He can’t do anything at the moment anyway. 

“I’d like to be his friend anyway.” 

Sharon sounds like she’s conceded, if only a little, “if you think that’s a good idea, I’m not gonna judge you for it.” 

The words like a balm over his hurting heart, Steve attempts a smile. 

“You can tell me ‘I told you so’ when it blows up in my face.” 

“It won’t, Steve, but you know I wouldn’t need your permission anyway.” 

What an asshole.

“I don’t know why anyone thinks you’re nice!” 

“You love me,” she singsongs before they say goodbye. 

##

It’s after 2 a.m. when Steve calls Bucky. They’ve texted for a few minutes but, sue him, he wants to hear a friendly voice. It’s been a rough day. 

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice is gruff but it sounds like he has a smile on his face. Steve’s eyes are still burning from his shitty day. 

“Hey Buck,” and his own voice is lower and a little more throaty than normal. 

A pause. 

“Steve, you okay?” There’s the concern, the concern for Steve. Bucky’s voice is like a hug and, god, Steve just wishes he could hug him. The tears are already forming. 

“It’s my ma’s anniversary…” When Bucky doesn’t respond, Steve continues, “usually I’d go to mass - though it’s the only time I do - and then visit her grave an-and my friends bring me out for dinner and spend the day and sleepover…” 

Bucky whispers, “but you couldn’t do any of that today.” 

Steve murmurs, “no... So, they were calling throughout the day but it’s not the same and I guess I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself.” 

Bucky huffs, “you’re not feeling sorry for yourself, Steve. You’re sad. That’s okay, y’know.” 

Steve sniffles and wipes his face into his pillow, “she died so long ago, and sometimes it still hurts the same as it did at the time.” 

Bucky’s throat clicks over the line, “I get it.” 

He turns over and stares at the ceiling, “lockdown has been bad but today is the worst.” His breath comes out in sharp bursts and the tears continue, “fuck, I’m sorry. I’m such a child.” 

“Stop!” Bucky doesn’t exactly shout but his voice is forceful, “you aren’t a child, you’re allowed to be sad. To mourn.” 

Steve sniffles and silence settles between them; it’s not awkward, if anything it’s warm, comfortable, Steve’s curiosity piqued. 

Bucky continues, “tell me about her?” 

Steve smiles, sniffling back the residual tears. He wipes his face with the edge of his sleeve. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I’d really like that.” 

Steve can feel the smile spread wider across his face. 

“Sarah Rogers was the strongest, most compassionate person you could ever meet…" he starts, picturing her pristine in her uniform, "so my da was in the army and, well, we never got to meet. He died before I was born.” 

Steve hears Bucky’s sharp inhale, “that’s rough.” 

“S’okay,” and he means it, “can’t really miss someone you never met…” He clears his throat, “I was born with all these medical issues, like, so many I don’t think the doctors thought I was gonna survive.” Steve lets out a wet laugh, “ma said I held on through sheer stubbornness.” 

Bucky’s laugh is warm and deep and quiet in the night, Steve wonders what it would be like to hear it through that strong chest, resting his good ear against his skin. 

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” 

“Me neither, to be honest. She was a nurse so whenever there was something wrong, she pretty much knew. She is one hundred percent the reason I’m still alive now.” He sniffles and lets out a heavy breath, thinking back on his beautiful mother. 

“I would take in strays from the street and she would complain but would always help me make them better or get them adopted or bring them to the vet.” A sound breaks from his throat without his permission, “our neighbours would look after me when she was working - which was most o’the time - but she always took my birthday and Christmas off… That was our time.”

Bucky breathes out on a soft laugh, “sounds like a good mom.” 

“The best,” Steve whispers, “my birthday’s July fourth -” 

“For real?!” Bucky’s voice is near giddy and it puts a smile on Steve’s face. 

“God’s honest truth. We used to sit on the roof and eat cake and she would tell me the fireworks were for me, for my birthday. Because I lit up her life like fireworks light up the sky.” 

Steve’s eyes grow wet and he tries his best to silently sniff them back. 

“That’s beautiful,” Bucky’s voice is so gentle, like a summer breeze. 

The tears still come and his voice cracks, “yeah, it was.” 

“Oh, Stevie…” 

Bucky’s low tone makes Steve’s neck tingle and it pulls him suddenly back from his sadness. He chokes back the claggy wetness in his throat and blows out a long, strong breath. 

“I had open-heart surgery as a baby and, fuck, then she had to spend my entire childhood keeping me alive because a strong wind was gonna get me, or the schoolyard bullies…” 

Steve is chuckling until he realises Bucky isn’t.

“You were bullied?” 

Steve can’t help but snort at that, “I was tiny and angry and poor and sick and queer and righteous… Guess I haven’t changed much.” That’s when Steve realises that he revealed he was queer. He holds his breath, waiting for Bucky to say something. Waiting to pounce, always on the defensive. 

“I wouldn’t’ve bullied you.” 

Steve’s whole body melts in his sheets, “I know.” 

And that feels important. Like something significant has happened but Steve isn’t sure what. He continues anyway, unsure how to react. 

“I was 14 when she was diagnosed, 17 when she passed…” He rushes out as unemotionally as possible, “I’ve no other family. She came from Ireland, no aunts or uncles around and grandparents dead too so… it was just me.” 

Steve closes his eyes and listens to Bucky breathing on the end of the line. 

“Steve…” Buck murmurs, his voice like a caress, “fuck, you’re so strong.”

And that’s… not what he expected. Steve expects the pity, the ‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry for your loss… etc’. He’s never been told he was strong and, frankly, he doesn’t know that he is. 

“I wasn’t strong though. I was angry, for a long time... So long. Pushed a lot of people away.” 

Bucky sounds like he’s thinking, a curious little tilt to his words, “maybe they didn’t deserve to stick around.” 

Steve’s heart glows warm at those words, words he never thought before. Bucky can’t mean it the way he said it though. 

“How come you know the right thing to say?” 

Bucky chuckles then, a deep, gravelly thing that Steve feels in his toes. 

“I usually don’t.” 

Steve doesn’t mean his voice to come out as breathy as it does when he whispers, “you do with me…” 

And then there is silence and, Jesus, Steve should not have said that. It’s too intimate, too much like a confession, too much like a secret he should’ve held to his heart and kept locked away behind his ribs. 

“I lost my parents a while ago.” 

Steve’s heart thuds once and stops, before picking up again a lot slower than comfortable. 

“Really?” 

Buck hums, “I was in Afghanistan at the time… I - I couldn’t get home.” 

Steve’s heart sinks. Bucky’s parents - assuming both - died at the same time. How did he get through that? Get through not being there? 

“God, Bucky, I can’t even imagine…” 

“S’okay,” Buck whispers, voice like nighttime, “it was sudden, a car crash. They didn’t suffer. Just wish I was here for my sister, y’know?” 

Steve feels the ache of grief like a physical thing, between his ma’s anniversary and this new information about Bucky. 

“The main thing is you came back to her in the end.” 

There’s a smile in Bucky’s voice when he responds, “you’re like a ray of sunshine.” 

Steve can’t help but laugh at that, an alarmingly unattractive snort. If only Bucky knew. “I’m like the most non-sunshiney person you could meet. I don’t even like the sun.” 

“You don’t like the _sun_?” 

“I’m Irish!” Steve whines, “s’not my fault I could burn from a camera flash! My eyes water during daylight hours… I - I got sunstroke before!” 

But Steve doesn’t mind so much, ignores his blushing cheeks, because Bucky is giggling - _giggling_ \- and it’s such an amazing sound and he always wants to make him sound like that. 

“Your skin is like porcelain.” 

Steve’s breath sticks in his throat when he hears that, those soft delicate words that could be interpreted in a way that Steve’s brain can’t cope with right now. So he distracts with a joke, or he tries to. 

“More like a sickly Victorian child.” 

They chuckle softly before trailing off. They are silent for a little while, Steve’s heart thumping but it’s only then he realises that sad thoughts of his mother had been replaced with Bucky’s words. 

“You’ve made tonight a lot easier, Buck, thank you.” 

The voice that comes out then is soft, “really?” 

Steve smiles, tiredness weighing down his limbs, “really. I feel like I can talk to you about anything.” 

“I - I like that.” 

The traffic sounds become a little more muffled and Steve lets out a yawn. 

“It makes me feel less alone when I know you’re here.” 

“Me too, Steve.” 

He dreams of his ma’s funeral that night but Bucky’s there too and, somehow, he makes it a little easier. 

##


	8. Author's Note

Hey guys, so unfortunately my keyboard and my ancient laptop are on the way out. 

I've transferred all of my existing work so I luckily havent lost anything but unfortunately I won't be able to update for a while. 

Until I find a way to get my laptop working again. 

I'm typing this from my phone and it feels so wrong! 

I'm sorry if anyone thought this was an update but just know that I haven't abandoned this work and will get back to it whenever I can. 

Thanks,  
FG


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaack! 
> 
> So sorry for the delay! Though my computer is not fixed and I can't afford a new one, I managed to get my old one back up and running. Huzzah! It's slow as shit and overheats to the point of dying but I can type. 
> 
> There are only going to be a few more chapters, maybe three, of this fic but I have had such fun writing it. I've taken liberties with the timeline of this goddamn virus because it'll probably never go away! 
> 
> ALL THAT SAID, I hope y'all are safe and happy and healthy and that you enjoy the rest of this! I just can't stop the fluff and I think we need it at the moment. 
> 
> Comments and kudos keep my computer from giving up on life <3

##

Steve has been hunched over Illustrator for… six hours? Seven? He’s lost time and by the time the sun has moved to the other side of the room, his neck is stiff and his back is frozen after so long with not even a trip to the bathroom. 

After his mother’s anniversary, Steve spent two days treating himself to a rewatch of Parks and Rec and multiple takeaways because if he can’t treat himself kindly at this particular time, well, when can he? 

So he’s had to dive back into work head-first and has been working pretty much non-stop for the last few days; with breaks for food and peeing (whenever he remembers). 

Steve straightens out his curved back like a metal clothes hanger, swiveling his neck like a cement mixer until it audibly cracks. “Fffffffuck.” 

Oh boy, that position was a mistake. Big mistake. His bones are aching with that deep-seated throbbing pain he can’t shake. 

He reaches into the drawer in the coffee table and grabs a bottle of his emergency anti-inflammatories and throws back two. He tilts his head and struggles to send his final sketches to his boss before placing his laptop and tablet to the side. 

Then it’s basically the slowest journey to straighten out his back while simultaneously pressing his spine into the couch cushions. It’s at times like this that he’s glad he has a relatively stiff couch - as much as Sam likes to whine that there must be cement in the cushions - as his curved back aligns into something resembling a straight-ish line. 

The muscles in his back throb with every movement he makes, his limbs tingling as blood flows to places it’s forgotten exist for the past few hours. 

Once he’s settled, Steve wiggles his toes and, without moving his body, finds his phone between two cushions. 

The doctor’s busy tone makes Steve whimper in frustration. He sends a message to the secretary, hoping that he can just get a repeat prescription or even some advice because god knows he can’t venture into whatever apocalyptic hellscape exists beyond his front door. 

He texts Sam to let him know that he doesn’t need groceries - he could do with some bread but he’s not about to admit to Sam that he probably couldn’t get up to pick up the groceries until, perhaps, tomorrow morning. 

Steve contemplates texting Sharon for some brownies but he doesn’t want to get into explaining to her because then Sam will find out and it’s hardly worth it. Plus, he’s pretty sure he froze a couple of her last batch. 

He wants his ma. He wants to hear her sniggering at him for doing something stupid like curl up into a pretzel for hours or scolding him for self-medicating with weed and not believing that a ‘nice young girl like Sharon’ would provide him with the goods. He wants to feel her fingers in his hair and her warm, worn palm against his cheeks. He wants to rest his head against her lap and have her complain about his choice in television. He wants her to tell him that she loves him more than anything in the world and he wants to tell her about Bucky. 

Bucky. 

Before he can even think, Steve has his phone in his hand and the familiar number dialed. The line picks up after three rings, one more and he probably would've given up. 

“Steve?” 

Bucky's voice is light, happy like he actually wanted to hear from Steve, regardless of how shocked his tone is. 

“Hey Buck,” Steve mutters, wondering if he sounds as shitty as he feels. 

Bucky's voice drops to something a little more worried so Steve is sure he hasn't hidden it as well as he thought. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, just -” _wanted to hear your voice_ is probably a little too desperate to say, “feeling under the weather and wanted to hear a friendly voice...” he trails off into a whisper, suddenly realising how stupid and desperate he suddenly sounds. 

But there's a smile in Bucky's voice, “dunno why you called me, then.” 

Steve snorts and the action jolts his back, a flash of icy white pain shooting into his right shoulder. He gasps at the feeling, how his arm spasms. 

“Steve? Wha -” Bucky starts, suddenly sounding a little out of his depth, “are – are you okay?”

Steve focuses on that rich chocolatey voice, breathing deeply through the pain. He clears his throat. 

“Yeah, jus' twisted my back, and now every time I move, it's just like someone is stabbing me with a particularly sharp and ferocious icicle, no big deal.” 

Bucky seems to snort in shock, “ever the fuckin' martyr.” 

Steve grins and feels his back muscles shudder as it leases some tension. 

“Tha's me,” Steve whispers, hearing Buky rustling in the background before he drops something. “You okay?” 

Bucky settles again and sighs, “yeah, I was in the middle of trying to clear out my hovel of an apartment – those are not my words – before the Red Mist comes over like a goddamn tornado and throws my shit into the street.” 

Bucky sounds frustrated but also, maybe, a little grateful that he can share these things, share his life. 

“Red Mist?” 

Bucky groans, “Nat, my best friend... She, well, she's like the worst kind of mother-sister a guy could ask for. She also might be a spy, the jury's out on that one.” 

Steve relaxes as he listens to Bucky talk about her. His eyes slide closed in increments, shoulders easing into the cushions beneath him and the padding beneath his lower back supporting gently. 

“I've known her since we were kids but, like, she's still the scariest person I've ever known.” 

Steve falls asleep soon after, just as Bucky mentions another friend, a 'pain in the ass' from the VA. Steve never catches the name. 

##

Steve wakes up a few hours later, back loose - looser - having returned to his usual pain level. He sits up slowly and looks down to see his phone dented in the cushion where his head had been. 

**Bucky <3: I hope it was the pain pills and not my boring story that made you fall asleep.   
Bucky <3: You make these little snuffling noises when you sleep.   
Bucky <3: _Message Deleted_  
Bucky <3: I hope you're feeling better.**

Steve responds with something he hopes isn't too desperately tinged with love. 

##

Steve is cackling so much he can’t actually keep drawing. 

“NEXT ONE!” Bucky calls, swigging from a beer - Steve won’t say how many he thinks he’s had because he hasn’t paid enough attention - “Charlie’s Angels!” 

Steve thinks for a second, “TV show or the movies?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, “movie, obviously.” 

Steve tries to think, “kill Cameron Diaz, fuck Drew Barrymore and marry Lucy Liu.” 

Bucky hums, glancing away, thinking himself. “Mmm, I’d swap Drew and Lucy but, yeah, let’s all kill Cameron!” 

Steve laughs, “Jesus Christ, Bucky, not actually kill! It’s a game.” 

“Fine, you wanna be a loser and say ‘cancel’ instead of ‘kill’? Be. My. Guest.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, taking a sip of five-dollar red wine that has become Steve’s new best friend; he promptly told Sam, who had actually picked it for him so Sam maintains he is still his best friend by proxy. 

His pencil lines are fluid and where he’s hunched over his sketchbook, Bucky’s eyes stare back at him from the page all dopey and joyful. 

When he had suggested the idea to Bucky, Steve didn’t really think he would go for it. Alcohol has always made Steve a little less self-conscious about, well, everything really, and his art is no different. 

“The Chrises!” Bucky shouts suddenly like he’s had a great idea, “Pine, Hemsworth and Pratt. Go!” 

Steve hums, tracing the hairs of Bucky’s astonishing lashes, “aren’t they married?” 

Bucky’s snort breaks him from his trance and he looks up. Bucky is looking at him with a smile that makes Steve’s whole body lurch. 

“What?” 

Bucky leans closer to his screen, “are you really concerned about their marital status?” 

“Fine!” He giggles though he swears he doesn’t mean to, “um… marry Hemsworth, fuck Pine, kill Pratt.” 

Bucky leans back, taking a swig of his beer. He looks like he’s considering. 

“I’d marry Hemsworth too, fuck Pratt though, probably.” 

Steve grins, sharpening his pencil before taking another sip of wine, “Hemsworth is definitely marriage material.” 

“Severus Snape, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin!” 

Bucky sounds so delighted with his topic that Steve can’t help but stare at his beautiful, grinning face and think that maybe he’s perfect. 

“Kill Snape, fuck Sirius and marry Lupin,” Steve replies almost immediately, making Bucky’s eyebrows jump into his hairline. 

“I feel like you’ve thought about this before.” 

“Maybe…” Steve just shrugs, his smile devilish, “I saw the films, I never read the books.” 

Bucky gapes, “never?!” 

Steve has spent so many years without reading the books that he’s not going to change it now. He almost relishes in the abhorrence people feel when he tells them. 

“Nope. People assume that because I’m small and sickly I woulda been all over that shit. Ma even tried to force the first one on me when I was sick in the hospital,” the memory making Steve laugh, “I thought it was for kids…” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I was ten!” 

Bucky cackles, “Jesus Christ, Stevie, even a stubborn little shit then!” 

Steve stays silent, his smug smile lingering around his lips. 

Bucky’s voice has quieted to something embarrassed, “I read them when I was overseas. The books traveled through a group of about eight of us. It was a nice escape.” 

Steve softens at that, picturing burly men in camouflage passing kids’ books around to distract them from the horrors surrounding them. But Bucky doesn’t dwell and doesn’t leave enough of a silence for Steve to reply so he continues. 

“Then when I got home, I decided to watch the movies and, well, lotta stuff left out but I liked them all the same,” he shrugs. 

“You never said what your preference was between the three characters?” Steve asks, hoping to take that slightly haunted glaze away from Bucky’s eyes once again. 

It works and he smiles, “same as you.” 

##


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and commented! I really appreciate it. You guys are the best. 
> 
> This is the chapter where shit. hits. the. fan. So... enjoy? 
> 
> I hope you are all safe, sane, and healthy. Wear a mask, wash your hands, be kind. Black lives still matter.

##

Steve has never been so inspired. The weeks fly by and Steve finds himself pumping out work for clients quicker than ever before. He’s running out of canvases and sketchbooks and Sam - bless his heart - goes to the art store nearby with a _very specific_ list of what Steve needs. 

_“Why is this shit more specific than your actual food lists?”_

Steve feels almost manic with it. It’s all because of Bucky. 

Their phone conversations become a regular thing and Steve couldn’t keep the lingering smile off his face if he tried. It starts with a few minutes of texting until one or the other bites the bullet and calls. 

Until one night. 

Bucky calls out of the blue and before Steve responds, there’s soft, sporadic breathing. 

“St-steve?” 

It’s Bucky but Steve almost doesn’t believe it. His voice is soft, child-like, _scared_. 

“Bucky? Hi, hey, you okay?” 

There’s a pained sound, like a trapped animal, and Steve’s whole body is tense with anticipation. 

“I-it hurts, Steve. I’m… it’s gone but it _hurts_.” Steve has no idea what’s happening, his heart is in his throat and Bucky is groaning like he’s been attacked. 

“Has something happened? Buck, you gotta talk to me. You’re scaring me.” 

Bucky gasps in a strangled breath and then he’s sobbing uncontrollably. He doesn’t speak. 

“Bucky? Baby, please, you gotta, you have to say something, Buck. I can get someone to you but you hafta tell me what’s going on, okay?” And he really tries his best to keep his voice calm but his breathing has escalated. 

“M-my arm, I don’t got an arm, St-steve, s’gone.” 

Steve grows more and more confused by the second. 

“Can you get somewhere safe? Can - do you have anyone to go to?” 

Bucky is whining and the sound sticks in Steve’s good ear. 

“I can’t _leave_ , Steve, I can’t. I can’t,” his voice softens into something broken. 

Steve is thinking. He could get Sam to go to him. If he’s been attacked, Sam can hold his own. If it’s been a robbery or an attempted robbery, he can calm the situation, or if Bucky is injured, he’d know exactly what to do. 

Before Steve can respond, Bucky’s whispering. 

“I wish you were here.” 

Steve feels tears flood his eyes, “I know, Bucky, I know. I wish - I wish I was there. I - I can’t leave, I - fuck.” His heart thumps a frantic jack-rabbit beat in his chest, “I have a friend. He’s a good guy, he’ll come to you. You gotta trust me though okay? And gimme your address.” 

There’s silence. 

“Please, Bucky, please. Just trust me, or - or I can get an ambulance to-” 

“No!” It’s nearly a shout, trailing into a desperate whimper, “no, no, no ambulance, please.” 

“Bucky, let me do this for you?” 

Bucky whines again, panting like he can’t breathe properly, like whatever pain he’s in is killing him. Bucky eventually reveals his address with a groan and immediately hangs up. 

Steve’s fingers slip across his screen before he takes in a breath and dials Sam’s number. 

“’lo? Steve?” Sam goes from sleep and groggy to wide awake in seconds, “Steve, you okay? Has something happened?” 

When he hears Sam’s voice, Steve starts to cry. 

“It’s Bucky, he called. He gave me his address, sounded like he’s been attacked, Sam, and I don’t know what’s wrong and I said you’d go to him. He said his arm is gone and it hurts and he was crying and Sam! I - I don’t -” 

Sam cuts him off. 

“I’m up, pulling on clothes,” Steve can hear the rustling down the line, “s’okay, Steve, I got this. I’ll call you later, yeah?” 

It takes Steve a few minutes to realise that Sam forgot to ask for Bucky’s address so he sends it and sits in silence, phone in hand, plugged into the wall. He starts to paint and the daylight comes across the sky gradually but it’s hard to notice. He paints for hours, eyes gritty as the traffic outside grows in intensity. 

He pulls away from the canvas and notices that Sam nor Bucky have texted and he’s too nervous to try them, that something’s happened. Maybe Bucky is okay, maybe he’s asleep, maybe Sam is in work or took a day off because of Steve’s mid-night freakout. Maybe they are still together and nothing is right. 

When he looks back up at the canvas, it’s Bucky’s face. His beautiful face creased in unimaginable pain. 

##

Sam calls in the afternoon. Steve doesn’t even let it ring once before he’s scrambling to answer it. 

“Sam? Are you okay? Is Bucky okay? Did something happen?” 

“Steve,” Sam mutters. 

“H-his arm? _God_ , Sam, I - did someone hurt him? Is he in the hospital? I can’t even see -” 

“Steve!” 

Sam’s voice punctures the fuzzy veil around his head. He takes a deep breath and releases it carefully, “yeah?” 

“It’s okay, Bucky is… he’s okay. He wasn’t attacked or anything, don’t worry. He told you he was a vet?” 

Steve feels his eyes water and his nose tingle but he pushes back the tears, clearing his throat, “yeah, he did.” 

“He, well, he’s not been doing so good but it’ll be okay, alright? It was amazing that he managed to call you, and you could call me. He’s lucky you were there.” 

Steve knows Sam means well but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Steve’s stupid fucking body meant he couldn’t leave, he couldn’t help when he needed to, when Bucky said he wanted him there. 

“But I wasn’t there. He needed me and I couldn’t leave my _fucking house_!” 

Sam remains in silence because there’s nothing he can say to dispute the truth. Steve rips the skin from around his thumbnail with his teeth.

“Should I call him?” 

Sam’s sigh is staticky over the line, “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I’m sure he’ll call when he’s ready.” 

Steve doesn’t know why there’s pressure in his chest, behind his ribs, and traveling up his esophagus like vomit. His skin feels cold and too tight. 

“Okay,” then something occurs to him, “maybe he could come see you at the VA?” 

“Uhh, yeah, Steve, that’s a good idea…” A second, “but listen, I gotta go. Work calls, okay? I’ll text you later.” And then he’s gone. 

##

Steve can’t sleep. 

It’s been nine days of radio silence from Bucky and Steve’s conversations with Sam are a much rarer occurrence these days than they were before The Incident. 

Steve decides to text him because he can’t let this go on. His stomach is churning and his heart is beating rapidly and his anxiety has been out of control. 

**Sent: Hey Sam I’ve been going thru this in my head and I’m so tired and I’m panicking and I feel like you’re ignoring me and I just wanna know if I did something wrong by asking you to go see Bucky? I thought you said I did the right thing but then he hasn’t talked to me and you’re not around as much and please I just need to know that I didn’t fuck up.**

He feels like he didn’t breathe the whole time he is texting and he puts his phone on silent so he won’t spend the next few hours anticipating a text. 

Steve turns over and stares at the ceiling, the little glow in the dark stars he placed there when he moved in and was afraid he was too old for a nightlight. After a few months, he bought himself a nightlight anyway because he’s a goddamned grown up and it’s Darth Vader’s helmet so he figures that gives him enough street cred with… nerds? 

The sky lightens beyond his curtains, turning from dark navy to a murky grey of the early summer morning before the sun rises. 

He checks his phone. Sam still hasn’t text back. 

Steve bites the bullet and decides to text Bucky. Clearly, he’s embarrassed or sick and he’s going through it and Steve just wants him to know that he’s here. He’s here and he’s not going anywhere. 

**Sent: Hey Bucky. I want you to know that no matter what’s going on I still wanna be friends. I’m happy you called that night. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I hope that you are safe and happy and healthy. I miss you. X**

This time, he leaves in the kiss because he has nothing left to lose. 

##

Steve wakes up from an afternoon nap to the sight of a text from Sam. 

**Fuck Face: Yeah I know I’ve been a bit absent lately. Man we have so much to talk about. You around to Zoom soon? I’d talk to you in person about all this shit if I could. You didn’t do anything wrong I promise. But I think there are a few things you should know.**

Steve is no clearer after Sam’s text than he was when he wrote the first one. 

**Sent: I’m around whenever. Whatever is going on. Please Sam.**

Everything is still shit but everything is out of his hands and, honestly, there is something soothing in it. He paints. 

##


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M FINALLY BACK. Sorry for the delay (depression is a helluva drug) it will probably continue but there will only be, maybe, two more chapters after this one. So please bear with me! 
> 
> Thanks for all of your lovely comments and your interest in this fic! 
> 
> I'm thinking about anyone who has been affected by the wildfires raging, I hope you are all safe. And that the rest of you and your families are healthy during the ongoing pandemic. Black lives still matter. 
> 
> Rest in power, Chadwick.

##

He’s face-first in a bowl of cheap ramen when his phone buzzes.

**Bucky <3: I’m not ready yet.**

Steve loses his breath for longer than is healthy. He stares at the notification, not yet clicking into the message because he is not prepared enough for Bucky to know that he was holding out for any kind of communication. 

He puts his phone down for a minute and sits, staring, unseeing, going over what’s in his head. 

Bucky isn’t ready. So that probably means he isn’t ready to talk or explain what happened, and that’s fine. It’s fine. Steve wouldn’t need an explanation anyway. 

So why does his stomach still churn like that? 

**Sent: That’s okay. I’ll be here when you are.**

Bucky texts back almost immediately. 

**Bucky <3: Have you talked to Sam?**

That makes the panic in Steve’s chest grow like something physical, something he feels like he could almost expel from his mouth. 

**Sent: No… why? What’s going on?**

**Bucky <3: Talk to Sam.**

The nausea in Steve’s body remains like a phantom feeling and he can’t kick it. Bucky hasn’t been on Zoom in eleven days. 

**Sent: Bucky said I have to talk to you about something? Sam what’s going on? Please talk to me!**

He doesn't get a response. Food still turns up on his doorstep like clockwork. 

##

Steve wanders around his apartment for hours, days? He’s not sure. Bucky still hasn’t contacted him, though he expected it, Sam neither, and that cuts worse than a knife. When he thinks of them, it’s like a physical pain manifest, though it’s Sam who has broken Steve’s heart. 

He calls Sharon. He’s already crying. 

“Steve, I’m not -” She sounds rushed, “it’s busy.” 

“Sorry, fuck, sorry, yeah, I didn’t know…” He goes to hang up before she’s responding. 

“What’s going on?” Her voice is commanding like he imagines the captain of a ship would be, calm and no-nonsense. It softens a little, “Steve…” 

Steve inhales a hiccup. 

“Sam won’t talk to me an-and Bucky’s _gone_ and I dunno what to do. I fucked up and no one will talk to me,” he wipes the back of his sleeve over his disgusting face. 

Sharon’s voice grows sad, “Jesus, Steve, I - I - look, it's okay. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m gonna fix this, okay?” 

Steve’s heart hurts and the tears won’t stop, his mouth is claggy with unspoken emotions, caught in the dry, phlegmy depths of his throat. 

“No, no, I… You don’t know, s’not -” 

Sharon cuts him off. 

“ _I’m going to fix this, Steve. So fucking help me._ ” 

In spite of himself, Steve believes her. 

##

Steve sleeps for ten hours and wakes to comforting texts from Sharon and a text from Sam. None from Bucky. 

**Fuck Face: Can we facetime whenever you’re free?**

Steve texts back almost immediately, his chest tight and stomach feels like its contracting around nothing. 

Sam calls almost immediately and his face is on Steve’s small phone screen but the guilty look on his face. 

“Hey, man,” his voice is deep, lower than normal, his eyes a little bloodshot and the look on his face falls somewhere between guilty and concerned. 

“Hey Sam,” and honestly Steve doesn’t know what else to say. He’s at a loss. It’s never been difficult for them to keep conversations going for hours, days, even from the first week they met. 

Sam bites his lips and the skin looks frayed from the way he tears at the skin, a nervous habit he can never really control. 

“So, I guess there’s a lot we gotta talk about,” he catches himself, “or a lot I gotta tell you, really.” 

Steve’s heart is thumping in his chest, neck prickling with anxiety, his whole body is taut. 

“Okay… is, eh, is this why you’ve been gone? Is it about B-,” Steve falters, “is it about Bucky?” His voice trails off to a whimper that he can’t hold back, “is he okay?” 

“He’s okay! There’s… he’s safe and, he’s not hurt. Not really.” 

Steve frowns because what the fuck does that even mean? 

“So, it’s a long story and you’re gonna hate me but you can’t interrupt or hang up until I’m done, okay?” 

Steve snorts in spite of himself, “why would I -?” 

“Promise me, Steve!” Sam is rarely this serious with him, it shocks something free. 

“Okay, okay, I promise.” 

Sam sighs, his eyes focused on the window beyond his phone. He’s biting his nails and Steve, as promised, remains silent until he begins. 

“So, y’know how I got you onto that forum and helped write your bio and stuff?” Steve just nods, “well… it may not have been entirely innocent.” 

Steve blanches but doesn’t say anything. 

“See, I had this client who became more of a friend and he’s a good guy, one of the best guys, but he’s lonely and thinks he’s too damaged to find someone.” 

Steve has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going but he is determined to reserve judgment until after. 

“I tested the waters about him maybe meeting someone, y’know? That I knew someone to set him up with… Because I have this other friend, _my best friend_ , and he feels a little the same. I thought they would hit it off so I got this idea in my mind to set them up…” 

Sam blows out a heavy breath and rubs his forehead between strained fingers. 

“But after his last set back, this client, he… he couldn’t leave his house. At all. Agoraphobia.” 

Steve thinks back on Bucky, how he said he couldn’t leave his house either. How lonely he was. And Steve thought they were the same, that maybe Bucky was sick too. 

“He came back from the war with a helluva lot of trauma. I’ve rarely seen someone as bad. And then this on top of it? He was getting deeper and deeper into depression. We had tried to start a regime to get him out but then the pandemic hit.” 

Steve’s heart hurts and he attempts to choke back the lump of tears in his throat. 

“We had to push it back, which made his depression worse and he stopped answering my calls, talking to his family. It got bad. He was so afraid.” 

Sam finally meets Steve’s eyes and they seem to implore him to understand. 

“I told him about this forum, where people wanna just draw someone. He could go on it, I’d set it up for him and he… Let’s just say it took a while to convince him. And, well, he specifically didn’t want anyone interested in nudes or whatever… So I made sure my best friend’s bio said that.” 

A small smile crosses Sam’s face as he seems to lose himself in his memories. Steve can barely breathe as he hears about what led to him and Bucky meeting. 

“He didn't know I knew you but he was excited. He said he met some guy who was funny and nice and made him comfortable,” Sam grins then, “he blushed and said the guy was _real pretty_.” 

Steve brushes away a stray tear that’s fallen loose from his wet eyes. 

“The first time he saw what you’d drawn of him and he left for two weeks?” Sam asks but, god, Steve doesn’t need to be reminded. He didn’t need to remember how terrible he felt, how he thought he’d scared Bucky away. 

“I know you think he hated it,” Sam sighs, wistful, “man, the reason he left? He couldn’t deal. He… he hadn’t ever - he looked at the picture and he _felt_ something about how you saw him. It sent him into a spiral and, fuck, I wanted to tell you so bad but… Anyway. He thought he’d ruined things and you told me you just wanted to make sure he was okay and, okay so I didn’t actually tell him I knew you… but I told him that you sounded like a good guy and it wasn’t fair to just leave you hanging like that.” 

Steve blushes, looking down and picking at the seam of his inside-out sock. 

“And you forgave him, like I knew you would, and then, y’know,” Sam grins, “he told me about your late-night conversations… How it made him feel like he didn’t have to be alone anymore.” 

Steve’s heart constricts and more tears come, he chews at the inside of his cheek to try to stave it off. 

“Aw, Steve, c’mon, it’s a good thing!” Sam is staring directly at him and Steve can only nod, laughing at himself and fucking ridiculous he is to be crying. “He… he said that you made him want to try.” 

Steve finally breaks his promise, and it took him longer to do than he thought it would, “try to do what?” 

Sam’s smile is wide but his eyes are sad, “to live.” 

Steve crumbles, he can no longer hold Sam’s gaze, tucking his face into his knees. Steve, all this time, had these feelings, his heart pounding, his limbs numb, he can’t believe that he might have given Bucky something. Steve thought he was alone in this. 

He hears Sam’s voice beyond the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Steve, c’mon, Steve, it’s okay.” 

Steve looks up then and Sam’s face is concerned. 

“I love him, Sam. I think I’m in love with him,” and when he finally says it, it’s like the weight of the world has crashed around him and he can suck in a deep breath. His chest feels lighter. He breathes like it’s the first time, “I love him.” 

Sam’s smile is tentative but proud. 

“I think he has feelings for you, too.” 

Steve dims a little, “then why won’t he talk to me?” 

Sam sighs, sitting back, rubbing a rough hand over his hair and face, scrubbing with his palm. 

“The night he called you?” Steve nods, “he was having a bad night, really bad night. They hadn’t been as bad for a while and, and he had thought that maybe it had stopped? That it wouldn’t happen anymore…” Sam trails off. 

“Usually when he’s that bad, he can do nothing, he can barely call me or Natasha… but this time, Steve, he called _you_. He wanted to talk to you because you make him feel better, safe.” 

Steve has tucked his teary face into the crook of his elbow, he can barely comprehend it. Bucky needed him, wanted him there. Sam continues. 

“When I arrived, you can imagine, I wasn’t exactly welcomed. He thought he had called me and not remembered. Then I told him the truth - I had to tell him.” 

“And that’s why he didn’t speak to me and told me to ask you.” 

Sam blows a thick breath through his nose, “yeah.” 

“But he knows that I didn’t know, right? That I didn’t lie to him?” 

“Yeah, yeah, he knows all that now, Steve…” 

“Then why won’t he talk to me?!” Steve doesn’t mean to sound as pathetic as he does but his voice comes out on a whimper all the same. 

“I think he’s nervous… Embarrassed, afraid? He said I could tell you this stuff but, man, there’s been some back and forth about what and how much I should tell you, He said if it involved you, I could tell you. But he never,” Sam sighs, “he didn’t say he was gonna contact you, Steve. I'm so sorry.” 

Steve’s heart twists like someone’s reached into his heart and wrung it out of all the warmth that had been there. Bucky won’t talk to him again. He should have expected it. When he looks up, Sam’s face is guilty, forlorn. 

“If he had feelings for me, Sam, he’d call.” 

When it looks like Sam is going to argue, Steve just shakes his head. 

“I can’t talk about this now. I need time.” 

“Okay, okay,” resignation in his voice, “but we’ll talk more later, yeah?” 

Steve holds back the painful pressure of tears, “sure, Sam,” before he hangs up. 

When he’s alone then, the pain in his heart remains and he wonders if the hole in his heart has torn back open. 

##

Steve does something he’s never done before; he paints a self-portrait. It’s painful and disgusting and, once it’s finished, he can barely dare to look at it. 

##


	12. Chapter 12

**Sent: Did you know?**

**Nurse Ratchet: Of course not! He told me after I spoke to you and told him he had to tell you that he made this all happen.**

Steve cracks his neck, staring at the blank canvas. He hasn’t painted for two days, not since his disastrous self-portrait. 

**Sent: He lied the whole time.**

**Nurse Ratchet: I know. I don’t agree with what he did or how he did it but you know Sam had your best interests at heart. Both of you.**

**Sent: But now everything is ruined.**

Something dawns on him then, when he had that asthma attack that he refuses to call a panic attack, Sam was oddly aware. 

**Sent: Did you know about my asthma attack because Bucky told you?**

**Fuck Face: What???**

**Sent: When I had that bad asthma attack that you thought was a panic attack!!! did you know that because of Bucky? And if you did was he TELLING you personal shit about me???**

**Fuck Face: He may have told me a few things but NOTHING BAD and it’s not what you think.**

**Fuck Face: He sometimes isn’t sure how to react or if he’s doing the right thing. He needs advice sometimes.**

That just makes Steve feel worse. 

##

Steve sends a text to Bucky days later, maybe weeks. He's thrown himself back into work and he is trying not to keep track of the hours since he last spoke to Bucky. 

**Sent: I miss you so much.**

A few hours later, he receives a text from Sam. 

**Fuck Face: Give him time.**

That just makes Steve even more furious because why would Bucky talk to _Sam_ when he caused all this shit to begin with? Bucky won't talk to him, the other innocent in this scenario, but Sam. SAM. 

And Steve loves Sam, the logical part of his brain tells him, and maybe Bucky has to talk to him because he's his counsellor and it's not like a good counsellor is easy to come by and he's obviously still going through the fallout from the war and he - 

No, fuck him. Because Steve didn't do anything wrong and he's allowed to be upset and no logical voice in the back of his head is going to justify Bucky's behaviour, or Sam's, because he is allowed to be upset. 

Steve will allow himself to stew because there's a fucking pandemic and he's lonely as shit and his friend lied to him and he's been abandoned by someone he might lo - 

Steve wraps himself in a big fluffy blanket and hunkers down on the couch with a queue of some of his favourite movies - mainly 90s romcoms that he would hardly admit to loving. He's surrounded by junk food and wine and he snuggles down with his ancient teddy and pretends that nothing exists outside of this. 

So, yeah, Steve is going to wallow. At least for a little while. Not like he has much else to do. He'll pick himself back up tomorrow like nothing ever happened. 

##

Steve cannot keep looking at these fucking paintings any longer. He has drawings and sketches and watercolours and acrylics of Bucky lining every surface, and one oil painting that hasn’t yet fully dried. 

It’s driving him fucking insane. He hasn’t heard from Bucky but at least he and Sam have traipsed into some kind of tentative truce. Steve can’t bring himself to fully trust Sam yet, regardless of his good intentions. He didn’t think Sam kept anything from him. 

Steve still maintains that Sam is keeping things from him. 

He spends four hours packing the paintings and sketches in newspaper and bubble wrap. He wraps all of them except the first one - his favourite - and the large canvas of Bucky’s beautiful face torn in pain. He doesn’t think it’s one to share. There are a few other sketches and the wet oil painting that he decides to hold back because he wants to keep some mementoes from his time with Bucky. 

**Sent: Can you do me a favour?**

**Fuck Face: Of course!**

**Sent: You think Bucky would want forty renderings of his own face?**

**Fuck Face: Probably not but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have them.**

Steve can’t help but grin. 

**Fuck Face: You not gonna keep any for yourself?**

**Sent: We all have our secrets ;)**

He adds in the winky face to let Sam know for certain that he doesn’t mean it as some kind of dig at what’s been going on the last few months. Emojis are useful like that. 

##

Sam is on the way and Steve is about to tape up the box when he decides to put in his own self-portrait. He can’t look at it anyway and, maybe, it’ll show Bucky that, well… He doesn’t know what. That Steve hates himself too? That they don’t have to be alone, that Bucky doesn’t have to be alone because Steve gets it. He understands and he loves him. 

He puts the taped-up box outside his door. Once he closes and locks it behind him, the air smells fresher. 

##

Life returns somewhat to normal over the next few weeks. Lockdown is easing up so Steve sits and watches the people outside his window meeting friends, laughing, still wearing masks but _interacting_. It makes Steve a little less terrified of the outside world, though he still won't leave his apartment. He isn't ready yet. 

His life is fairly normal again, well, normal Pre-Bucky, not normal Pre-Covid so Steve falls back into his routine of too much sleep sometimes and too little sleep other times. Drinking alone and spending all of his Zoom time speaking to colleagues and clients, instead of B... someone else. 

No, that’s not fair. He’s not going to _not_ think of Bucky just because he’s hurt and lonely and he flayed himself open for a man he’s never - Nope. It’s not worth it. It’s over, it’s done. 

Steve didn’t know what he had expected from that forum initially. He expected maybe to get some inspiration, which he definitely did, maybe make a new friend, but he didn’t expect to fall in love. And it is okay because someday he’ll look back on this time and recognise it as something beautiful, a connection with a man he’s never met and will never meet, someone he could be lonely with. He never had that before and he won’t have it again but he’ll hold the experience close to his heart. 

At around 3 pm on a Thursday, there’s a knock on his door. 

It almost literally makes Steve shit himself. Sam and Sharon are the only people who have knocked on his door in three months and it’s always in the evening. Then he grows concerned, is it a neighbour in distress? (Probably not at 3 pm.) And then he gets nervous because it’s not like he can open the door and let in whatever waft of crazy shit is still in the air. (He will NOT be leaving his house until there is a vaccine because, regardless of his behaviour in the face of men much bigger and stronger than he is, he does not actually have a death wish.)

Another knock. 

Steve approaches the door slowly, silently, making sure to miss the creakier floorboards on his way. If it was someone with a parcel, they would have buzzed in, or maybe they slipped in behind another resident? Maybe it’s - 

“Steve?” 

Steve flinches, “Sam?” Then he’s at the door and desperately looking through the peephole like it’ll tell him exactly why the fuck Sam is here. 

“Yeah, man, it’s me.” 

His voice is weird and it suddenly has Steve on edge. 

“Is something wrong? Y-you know I can’t open the door.” 

Sam clears his throat and his moving from foot to foot like he’s nervous or - 

“You gotta pee or something?” 

Sam looks to the side and chuckles, “no, I… if I stand back a bit, you think you might open the door?” 

Steve’s skin feels a little fuzzy because he hasn’t really seen Sam in person for months and there’s suddenly a disconnect between how he should behave in company and his sense of self-preservation. 

“Okay, just… Just let me grab a mask, okay?” 

“Sure thing, bud!” 

He’s overly fucking cheery and Steve is just not in the mood. He doesn’t know what he has planned but if he’s here to attempt to coax Steve out of his apartment or whatever, he will receive a swift kick in the balls. 

Just the thought makes Steve annoyed and he rips a stitch or two in a fresh mask, making him grunt. Then he’s making his way back over to the door and unlocking his (numerous) locks before pulling it open wide. 

“Bucky?” 

##

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dum dum duuuummmmm. Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger? Lol. Don't worry, the next chapter will come by quicker. 
> 
> I'm so sorry for the impromptu hiatus. Life has been CRAZY. I HAVE BEEN CRAZY. 
> 
> But I was glad to come back to my safe place with these little assholes. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting, so sorry to have left you hanging for so long. But there are only a couple more chapters left until this baby is finished. 
> 
> Hope you all are safe and healthy. Black lives still matter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took it out of me, lots of editing and rewriting and I'm still not happy with it but I wanted to get it out and have this semi-finished. So, apologies? 
> 
> This is the last chapter of the main story. I will finish up with a cute little epilogue to round up the whole story but this is it for the most part. 
> 
> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS FOLLOWED THIS STORY. You are the best and really made me want to write when it just wasn't coming along.

Bucky is standing in front of him in place of Sam, at the other side of the corridor, his face covered in a black mask, long hair curling around his face and a little wet with - sweat, maybe? There are black gloves on his hands and long sleeves covering his arms. 

“Hey Steve,” Steve can’t see the smile on his face but he can hear it in his voice, tentative and gruff as it is. 

Steve looks to the right and sees Sam holding a big black bag that looks full. 

“You got Sharon in there?” 

Sam just snorts and looks down, wrapping his fist into the plastic. 

“Um, no… So, basically, I have the clothes Bucky walked over in and he changed into these clothes,” he points at Bucky’s body, “here so he was less likely to be contaminated when he got to you.” 

Steve looks between the two of them, before staring directly at Bucky, “I thought you couldn’t leave.” 

Bucky is sweating profusely, staring at the ground under Steve’s feet, tapping out a shaky rhythm against his thigh with his fingers. Then Bucky is glancing at Sam and shrugging. Even with his bad hearing, Steve can hear how heavy he’s breathing. 

Steve looks to Sam for an explanation. 

“The last few weeks, we been working on him getting out… Getting here.” Sam looks at Bucky with a proud grin, “we made it to the door downstairs two weeks ago so it was time.” 

Steve turns back to Bucky, who’s looking a little worse for wear. Like he’s literally about to faint. 

“Two weeks?” 

Sam grins, glancing between Steve and Bucky and looks proud. 

“Two weeks. Got a Covid test just after and has isolated ever since... To see you.” 

Steve feels like his body has been whipped by a heavy wind. He stares at Bucky, the sweat clinging to his brow, his tapping finger, his darting eyes. 

“For me?” Steve whispers, but before anything else can happen, Bucky sways a little on his feet. 

Sam suddenly looks a little rushed and more than concerned, moving slowly towards Bucky. 

“Okay, so I hate to rush this but Bucky’s basically decontaminated and it's the longest he's stood in one place so can he come in and I’ll be back for him later?” 

Steve’s eyes flick between the two; Bucky’s ashen face and Sam’s frantic eyes, so he just nods. Sam doesn’t touch Bucky but he does whisper something that’s too low for Steve to catch. Steve moves away, behind the door and lets Bucky stumble through before Sam is walking backwards down the hall. 

“Steve, call me!” And then he’s gone. 

He closes and locks the door and leans his forehead against the cold laminate door for a deep, steadying breath before he turns around. Bucky is unmoving, his back to Steve, but his shoulders are visibly trembling. 

“Hey Buck? You wanna go down the hall there, to the left, and use the bathroom?” 

Bucky just nods and stumbles away, careful not to touch off anything. Once the bathroom door clicks shut, Steve pulls off the mask because it's making him feel more than a little claustrophobic, and he’s at the kitchen sink then, cupping water into his hands to scrub soap into the skin for _two Happy Birthdays_ before he’s splashing clear water over his face and neck. 

Something suddenly dawns on him and he turns to look around the room, eyes landing on the paintings of Bucky. He just about manages to move them into the coat closet before Bucky returns. 

Steve turns to look at him. He’s wearing all black but his socks are red with little black stars on them and Steve realises that, even in his state, Bucky managed to kick off his boots at the front door. They’re both silent and much more than two metres apart but Bucky won’t look at him. 

Steve turns to the kitchen, making his way to the little alcove. 

“Buck? You want something to dr-?” 

“I love you.” 

His voice is low but Steve heard it clear enough to whip his head around and stare. 

“What?” He can feel his eyes grow wide and wet and then Bucky is looking at him, and he still looks shaken and terrified but maybe it’s for other reasons. 

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, staring at his feet, “I was supposed to wait to tell you that.” 

Steve can’t move, his skin is too hot and too cold and he has lost the use in his arms, like he’s been climbing the walls and has just since stopped. Bucky continues. 

“I -” he starts before clearing his throat, “I know I’ve been gone for so long but I had to make sure I could leave before I told you.” 

Steve is sure Bucky’s words are supposed to make sense but his blood is rushing in his ears. 

“I don’t understand.” 

Bucky wipes his eyes with his sleeve, glancing at the couch.

“Can we sit?” 

When they’re sitting, Steve has his knees pressed to his chest, turning fully to Bucky; Bucky has one leg bent up between them, but his hands are in his pockets – gloves removed some time amongst the chaos – and he looks so uncomfortable it makes Steve relax a little. 

Bucky pulls his hands out of his pockets without saying anything, he won’t meet Steve’s gaze as one flesh hand and one metal hand are revealed. 

It's – unexpected. But something that niggled in the back of Steve's mind since they first met eases with the knowledge. It explains that little lopsided shrug he does, the way he pulls his sleeves down over his hands, how soft and shy he is in spite of his striking beauty; the nightmares, the fear. 

He’s beautiful. 

“Your arm?” 

Bucky is frantically nodding, 

“S’why you didn’t wanna pose topless?” 

His head still nodding, his breath shudders. 

“Talk to me, Bucky.” 

He’s taking deep steadying breaths in strict increments like how Sam taught Steve to breathe through his numerous stresses. He taps out a staccato rhythm with his right hand. 

Eventually, he seems to calm, if only slightly. 

“Sam told you some stuff?” His voice is tiny, like that night he called Steve, and it breaks his heart. 

“Yeah, I mean, he didn’t tell me about your _arm_ or nothing, just, him playing around in our lives,” he tries for a joke that falls immediately flat. 

Bucky frowns, nodding, eyes staring into the middle distance, his back rigid. The silence stretches like taffy. 

“I was captured,” Bucky starts on a whisper, “when I was overseas. They had me for eight months,” he continues like he’s reading a story about someone else, “they took my arm. By the time I got back, my mom and dad had been dead four months and Becca thought I was dead too.” 

Steve’s romantic idea of Bucky immediately shatters before his very eyes and something real shimmers into place.

Bucky flexes his metal fingers before looking up. 

“I was the only survivor and, for some reason, they thought I deserved accolades and a fucking state of the art arm.” He snorts but it lacks any humour. His eyes are haunted and the sight makes Steve a little sick but he can’t look away. 

“Didn’t you? Deserve it, I mean?” 

Bucky breaks his gaze and looks back down at his hand, sniffling, “what made me so special that I got out? I shoulda died there with them.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Steve attempts a smile but he thinks his wet eyes might ruin the overall effect. 

Bucky laughs lightly and if that isn’t the best sound Steve has ever heard in his whole life. He loses his train of thought because Bucky reaches out to bridge the gap between them. Not touching, just resting his flesh hand on the cushion by Steve’s leg. 

“Me too. For the first time since - ” 

The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable, Steve allows it to wrap around them so that Bucky has time to reveal more if he sees fit. 

“I had a string of setbacks at Christmas…” he whispers, “their anniversary. Christmas Eve… It’s always pretty bad but this was the worst. Haven’t left the house since then.” 

Steve’s stomach is churning like there’s a herd of buffalo trapped in there, so much so he feels a little light-headed. He’s almost afraid to ask, to break the spell that has settled between where their eyes are locked. 

“What changed?” 

Bucky bites back a sad smile, scrubbing at his eyes. 

“Met this cute blonde.” 

Steve can’t help the bark of a laugh, whispering, “asshole.” 

Bucky finally grins, letting his head fall back against the couch, “he’s a feisty one,” he’s still staring into Steve’s eyes, “he made me laugh when no one else could, made me reveal things he didn’t even know were secrets.” 

Steve scrubs at the itchy corner of his eye, his knuckles coming back damp. 

“I was falling in love with him and then I fucked up. Called him during a flashback, found out his friend and my friend were the same person… A meddling douchebag.” 

Bucky turns so his body is facing Steve a little more. 

“All the paranoid thoughts kicked back in, the self-hatred, the _fear_ so I stopped talking to him.” 

Steve tightens his hold on his knees and breaks eye contact. He can’t swallow around the lump in his throat. He tries to smile as his lip quivers, “you broke my heart.” 

Then Bucky is moving, almost frantic to touch, but holds back, sitting so close, he may as well touch him. 

“Fuck Stevie,” he looks utterly devastated, “I’m so, so sorry.” 

Steve is sure that he looks a mess but he still lifts his head to look at Bucky because he's nothing is not hard-headed. 

“I made my peace with you never talking to me again,” Bucky’s face falls, “I…” Steve's voice sounds high and distressed, even to his own ears, “I was just as confused as you, Bucky! Sam did that to me too.” 

Bucky's rigid back deflates, his shoulders curling in on him. His flesh hand shakes through the couch but his metal hand is perfectly still. 

“I – I wanted to talk to you, Steve, I promise. I just...” He looks up and his pale eyes are wet and glistening in the corners, “it's like I forgot how.” 

Steve settles back into the cushion and stares at the far wall, his mind whirling. He tries to think of Bucky. How he must have felt. 

When he looks back at Bucky, he's staring. Bucky is staring at Steve's face with a misture of sadness and wonder. He doesn't look like he's going to say anything so Steve decides to pick himself up by his big boy pants and speak. 

“I missed you,” his swallow clicks in his dry throat, “I never met you and I missed you.” 

Bucky looks like he's going to burst of his skin where he is sitting, fingers tangled together, face pale and cheeks bright pink. His voice is quivering. 

“Can I touch you?” 

It's all he has wanted, he tries to swallow the thickness in his throat. He hasn't been touched in so long and all he wants is Bucky. Steve's breath whooshes out of him and tears spring to his eyes.

“Stevie...” Bucky coos, moving a little closer and studying Steve's face like he's seeing him for the first time. When Bucky pushes his index finger against the seam of Steve's sweats, he _yearns_. He's breathless when the words fall from his lips. “Talk to me.”

Steve is staring at the space between them, noticing Bucky's purple under eyes and the burst blood vessel near a sharp grey iris. 

“Why are you here, Bucky?” 

Bucky frowns like he wasn't expecting it. Steve didn't mean to throw this at him in such a way.

“I – I told you, I lov -” 

Steve turns and Bucky's face has fallen ashen. 

“You haven't spoken to me in, in weeks, months, even? You... and then you just turn up here and tell me you love me?” 

And he's really trying his best to keep it together because it's too good to be true, it's too much. 

“I – Steve...” 

“What changed, Bucky?” He inhales and exhales in a gentle rhythm, Sam would be so proud. 

“Sam gave me your paintings.” 

Steve feels his face flush, blood-hot, he had forgotten about it. Well, not so much forgotten, but he had cut out the image of Bucky actually seeing the paintings he had put so much work into. He can't say anything. 

“I could barely believe how you had painted me but,” he gives a little self-deprecating laugh, “it was the painting of you that... well, it made me feel things, I guess?” 

Steve glances up at that, out of the corner of his eye, but Bucky is staring at his own hands. 

“Feel what?” 

Bucky frowns, “it's hard to explain... I, it just, um, made me feel... less alone? Like, as selfish as it sounds, but I guess I was happy – or not _happy_ \- but it was good, like, comforting to know that. And I mean, comforting is also a weird way of phrasing that. Um, I'm not one of thse people who _sees_ myself in, well -” 

“Bucky!” Steve cuts him off with a soft chuckle before the poor man talks himself into a stroke. Bucky lets out a long forced breath. 

“You know what pain is. I could see that you see yourself the way I see myself. It's not good or healthy, I suppose, but it's honest and, and I thought, y'know, I had left you feeling this way and you had shown me this really personal, like, I felt like you were showing me your diary or something and I couldn't stop thinking about how... Fuck, how I had just left you all alone, after all that.” 

Steve slumps, unsure what he can say. 

“I abandoned you when we were both hurtin', Steve, and I, I really fucked up. I fucked it all up.” 

Steve's nose is itching and his throat is tight like a fist, the back of his eyes burning and, fuck, he can't just cry all over Bucky. But it seems like his body won't just get on board with his plan. 

“It's not all fucked up,” Steve whispers, “you hurt me but, but it's not all fucked up.” A wayward tear slips out but Steve hopes that rubbing it away quickly enough means others won't follow. 

“Can you forgive me?” 

The words are gruff and, maybe Steve isn't the only one desperate to keep his emotions in check. 

“You can't do this again, Bucky,” Steve turns and studies his face, “you talk to me. You talk to someone else, and you talk to me. You don't shut me out. You shut me out again and we're done. Over.” 

Bucky bites his lower lip and his silver eyes glow with tears until he turns his face away. He looks defeated, torn in two. 

“I'm so fucked up, Steve. I can't promise I'll always make the right decision.”

Steve turns towards him again, “neither will I. But all you gotta promise is you will try not to shut me out. That's it. You can have bad days and nightmares and cry and stay in bed all day beause you're too sad to get up. But I wanna be there, I want to hold you when you're scared, an-and dry your tears when you're sad and bring you tea when you can't face getting up.” 

Bucky's face is in his hands and his back is shuddering. Steve moves closer and gathers Bucky's wide shoulders against him, his large body curled up, making him seem so small and delicate. 

“I'm gonna have bad days too, Buck... I'm gonna have bad health days and shuffle around because my back has seized and get pneumonia every January like clockwork and I get into fights whenever I can actually _leave_ the house, and I'm stubborn and I'm still lonely for my ma and I hate myself more often than not and I have the weirdest sleep -” 

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve, stopping Steve's words on his lips. They stay wrapped in each other, Bucky smells warm and a little sweet, like leftover cologne, and whatever he uses to keep his hair looking like that. 

His face is pressed to Steve's neck and collarbone and his breath condenses against Steve's skin. Bucky's lips purse into a kiss and Steve shudders in response. 

Buky pulls away slowly and presses a kiss to Steve's cheek. Steve's eyes close in a daze until Bucky's voice carries across his lips. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Steve doesn't even open his eyes at the request, just tilts his chin forward, and trusts Bucky to meet his mouth. And then he does. 

Bucky's hands cradle Steve's face like he's something precious before one wraps around the back of his neck. It feels like a roaring fire and rain pattering on a windowpane and Christmas Eve and lazy Sundays and too many blankets and hot chocolate and... 

That's until Bucky's gentle tongue sweeps deftly against the crease of Steve's mouth, sighing as it opens, welcoming him inside. Bucky's lips curl into a smile and Steve can't help but reciprocate, grinning like a mad man, curlng his fingers into Bucky's shirt. 

And then Bucky is pulling away, pressing chaste kisses around his cheeks and mouth and Steve can't remember ever feeling this... loved? 

Steve opens his eyes and stares at Bucky, before lying back and tugging the bigger man with him. But Bucky is reluctant. 

“I'll crush you!” 

Steve just laughs and pulls more forcefully, “my doctor recommended a weighted blanket so you're just saving me money.” 

Bucky snorts and rolls so half his weight is on the couch where he is squished between the cushions at the back and Steve's small frame, with his arm and leg and a half (a third) of his torso settles over him. 

Bucky turns Steve's face so he can stare into his eyes and Steve can barely believe this is really happening. 

“Let me make it up to you. Let me stay. I'll stay until you want to get rid of me.” His thumb traces Steve's jaw and he can feel where the calluses are rough but his touch is like a spring breeze. 

Bucky's face is serene, hopeful, and Steve doesn't understand how someone can look at him like that. 

“You really wanna stay here?” Bucky nods, eyes open and sweet, and it makes something quiver in Steve's chest. 

“And if I don't wanna get rid of you?” 

Bucky smiles, rolling his lips into his mouth, “then you won't get rid of me.” 

They are silent for a minute before Steve presses a kiss to Bucky's forehead. 

“I love you too, you know?” 

Bucky sticks his face back into Steve's neck and sighs, “now I do.” 

The sun travels slowly across the sky and they just lie together, sharing an occasional kiss, hands gliding slowly across skin-warmed clothing. Steve breaks the silence with a whisper. 

“Sam will never let us live this down.” 

Bucky just scoffs, sound sleepy and relaxed. 

“Sam can eat my entire ass if he thinks this lets him off the hook.” 

Steve bursts out a laugh that he can't contain until Bucky kisses him into silence.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [what if i'm someone i don't want around?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761532) by [acheybones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acheybones/pseuds/acheybones)




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